The Dragon's Bride
by Rizzle
Summary: 7th year. Draco & Hermione awaken in a Muggle hotel room, naked, hung-over and tattooed. They also happen to be married. Thus begin a desperate search for a solution to their sticky situation.
1. Chapter 1

**July, 2013**

**A VERY IMPORTANT note regarding ratings, sexually explicit content and trigger warnings. PLEASE READ THIS.**

**Please do not read this story if dub-con or non-con scenes pose a trigger danger for you. I apologise if you've gotten this far without seeing my warnings on the profile page. **

I have a love/hate relationship with this story. It's the first completed multi-chaptered story I wrote in the first ship I ever considered myself to belong to. I wrote nearly the entire thing, over the course of nearly five years, in secret, during lunch breaks at my various workplaces (sometimes, in an actual broom closet). I wrote it for myself, for readers, but mostly, I wrote it to prove that I could write fanfiction if I bloody well wanted to (I couldn't write it freely because of problems in my personal life).

So basically, large chunks of the story were written during some really dark times and in a hurry. It shows because the story needs a serious beta editing and perhaps it also shows in some of the subject matter and character portrayals. Seven years after I finished writing it, I now have a problem with the first chapter, in the way it depicts non-consensual sex. I have problems with how Draco treats Hermione in general. His being eighteen and troubled doesn't excuse it. I do not endorse or support his behaviour. I am not attempting to idealise it. DB is just a story. It is not a manual for relationships. I attempted a re-write of DB about two years ago, but ran out of time and patience. One day, maybe! I've been asked by others not to re-write it; not to tone down the more explicit stuff because, well, it is what it is and many readers want it the original way. It would be a dick move to pull the story from the internet, but I have considered it. Not because I want to be an ass, but because of the above-mentioned reasons. I'm leaving the story as it is, with its messy formatting and typos, and with that first chapter unchanged. DB's a piece of very personal history for me, but I just wanted to let you readers know that I am aware of the unsavoury aspects of this story and it is not my intention to gloss over it. As for rating, I'd give it a hard R or NC-17 and if you are under-aged, please do not read this story.

That being said, consider yourself notified/warned and let's get on with the show.

**Soundtrack**: community . livejournal deaconstick / 368 . html (remove all spaces)

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**Chapter One**

_Saturday morning_

Draco

[7am.]  
Ouch. Groan. Double ouch.

Actually, make that triple.

Where the fuck am I, and why does my head feel like two horny, rampaging Hippogriffs have been pounding about in it all night?

Argh. No. Too much to think about. Best to sleep it off.

Got drunk again.

Obviously.

[8am.]  
No! Stupid brain! Go back to sleep.

Light starting to peek through curtains. This is a good thing. Means I'm indoors. Fell asleep in gutter last time.

Smell took days to wash off. Bad thing, that.

Need to piss badly. Need to sleep even more.

Am curiously, pleasantly warm. Sheets smell like tea rose and vanilla…and something else.

Nice.

Good brain. Lights out.

Hermione

[8.30am]  
Holy Mother of God.

I hurt. Everywhere.

Eyelids welded to face.

Sleep now. Dissect and analyse later.

Ah. Good brain.

[10.30am]  
Water.

Someone. Anyone. Will kill for glass of water.

Head hurts, joints stiff. Legs feel like custard pudding.

Am tremendously sore…

In places that have no business being that sore.

Oh God.

Graduation party…

Draco was the first to awaken.

He sat up against the pillows and opened bleary, bloodshot grey eyes. He blinked repeatedly, licking his extremely dry lips in an attempt to moisten a mouth that currently felt and tasted like sandpaper. Waking up with a hangover after an evening of partying was nothing new to him. After all, he was eighteen, good looking, popular and possessed of vast amounts of disposable cash and personal tabs at all the best drinking establishments in Britain (and two or three in France). As such, he was no stranger to the heavy headed feeling of a still-fresh hangover.

Three things occurred to him almost immediately.

First, he was in a hotel room, and not a particularly nice one at that. The drapes - drawn, thankfully - were a lurid shade of lime green, the carpet was nondescript brown shag and the few pieces of furniture were either made of plastic, chipboard or some hideous alloy of the two.

Second, he couldn't help but notice that the room was in absolute shambles. A chair was overturned in a corner, one leg had been almost entirely snapped off. It swung drunkenly in the light, dusty breeze created by the whirring of the ancient air conditioner overhead.

An empty bottle of Ogdens was lying on its side on the dresser, a large, wet patch still drying on the carpet just below. Clothing was strewn about, like victims of some sort of frenzied, laundry massacre. The formal robes he had worn the previous evening lay squashed in a corner, green and silver Slytherin crest just visible in the crumple.

There were other articles of clothing too - not his - Draco noted with a raised eyebrow. A deep blue set of robes lay inside out, draped over the edge of the bed. A lacy, peach-coloured brassiere hung from the knob of the bathroom door. His own underwear was draped over a lopsided lampshade.

Well! Things were looking up already, Draco concluded, as he leaned heavily against the pillows. His head may have felt like it was bearing a kilo of molten lead, but hey, a shag was a shag. And when one was a healthy, young wizard, a shag of any kind was a reason to be cheered.  
It wasn't until he turned his head to greet the lucky recipient of his inebriated attentions, did he make Observation Number Three.

Bloody. Buggering. Hell.

Hermione Granger, stalwart Head Girl of Hogwarts, bearer of detentions aplenty, giver of pinched looks, insistent warnings and the champion of beleaguered House Elves everywhere, was curled beside him in bed, seemingly fast asleep and very much naked.

And that wasn't all. As sense and sensibility returned to his body and brain, respectively, Draco registered the fact that Granger's hand was currently wrapped around his equally nude, upper thigh, in an unmistakably familiar gesture.

Now, Draco considered himself to be a worldly young man. He had had his fair share of romps, dalliances and other pleasurable school time diversions. But the current situation still rendered him stunned for a good five minutes.

It wasn't until the glitzy gold clock on the wall ticked over to forty past ten in the morning, did Draco finally acknowledge the sordid fact that he had engaged in sexual intercourse with his recently graduated fellow classmate. And not just any old sex either. It appeared that they had humped the stuffing out of each other, judging from the state of their accommodation.

Pushing aside the sudden, belated waking of his penis (and all other logical thought processes), Draco examined the sleeping girl beside him with a fascination that was nearly unholy.

Granger lay on her side, towards him. Her long hair was a tangle of mellow, cognac-colored curls, partially obscuring her face. The sheets were twisted around her legs, wrapped around a slender thigh. She slept like a wrestler in the throes of a championship dream. The rest of the blankets were pillowed under her cheek. Indeed, it looked like she had stolen most of the bedding, while Draco had commandeered the pillows.

Merlin's painted toenails. If word got out that he'd been dipping into the Muggle-born bane of Hogwarts, his housemates were likely to pelt him with rotten fruit upon his return to school. After all, they may have just attended their graduation ball, but there was technically a full two weeks left of school before the year officially ended.

Then again, perhaps bedding Granger wouldn't turn out to be such a bad thing, Draco pondered. He could dress it up as a final, do-or-die bid to take the insufferably know-it-all down a notch or two. To climb up to her on her great, white pedestal, and charm his way past the heavily guarded pearly gates.

But damn, if only he could remember how it had happened.

Somewhere in Britain, Draco was certain that a flock of pigs was currently in flight. It wasn't that Granger was a troll. She was passably attractive. Any Hogwarts male senior who wasn't partial to playing hide the broomstick with his fellow dorm mates had realized this after fourth year. It was just that besides Granger's dismal luck of being born a Mudblood, the girl was also possessed of the most annoying, most grating personality ever to befoul a person.

They attended a co-educational school, which of course meant that a wealth of dirty, teenaged daydreams tended to clog the air around the dorms, classrooms and hallways. Draco could not deny that there had been moments over the years when he had contemplated bending her over the edge of a cauldron during Potions and giving her a good, hard poke, in the hopes of loosening the infernal stick that was surely lodged deep up her arse.

But of course he had never really considered following through with any these musings. Apart from being a harpy, there was also the fact that Granger would have likely de-balled him if he even so much as rubbed against her in a crowded corridor. She was nice enough to look at, but she wasn't worth _that_.

And yet she had slept with him, all the same. And unless a particularly nasty bout of Imperious had been involved, it looked like she had dropped her tightly starched knickers quite willingly, too. A part of Draco was eager to Disapparate from the dismal hole in the wall they had managed to procure, and report his scandalous escapade to his classmates. Another part of him, however, was beginning to remember.

And with this hazy recollection came arousal. Buckets of it.

Draco was acutely aware that he was still intoxicated from their previous night's binge. He blamed the devil's brew then, as he placed his hand against her shoulder, wanting to remember more about the ways he had touched Granger's lightly freckled, golden skin. His palming of her shoulder was instantly met by her burrowing deeper against his side. She pressed her slightly open mouth against the skin on the curve of his shoulder and sighed in her sleep, sending Draco's already groggy brain into a tailspin. His erection twitched insistently against his abdomen, demanding to be seen to, as was often the case most mornings.

As carefully as possible, he pulled his hand back and obediently wrapped it around his aching penis. One practiced tug eased the tight sensation in his balls. Another tug intensified it again. The skin of his cock fairly burned. It was chafed, raw, and not a little bit tender. There was no mistaking the signals his body was giving him.

They had most definitely shagged, and shagged more than once, it would seem.

Granger made a sleepy, protesting sound at the loss of contact. With a great deal of muttering (trust the Mudblood to nag even in her sleep), she dragged her left leg over him, bringing the lower half of her body flush against his side.

A well-bred, well-regarded wizard might have chosen to be a gentleman at this point and shake the girl awake. But Draco was scum and he was well aware of the fact. With a mounting sense of anticipation, he slid down lower along the bed, careful to pull her leg up over his waist as he went. It wasn't an entirely natural position or particularly conducive to comfortable sleep, but sleep on she did. Although she was beginning to make a great deal of small, huffy noises.

Each moist exhalation was keenly felt by Draco. At that point, it no longer mattered who they were, or where they were. It didn't matter that he had found her to be entirely repellent on a daily basis for nearly seven years. All that mattered was that Granger was a soft, warm, girl in his bed and that a rather insistent part of his male anatomy was begging for an encore. Placing a hand on her arse, Draco brought her hips closer to him and tentatively pushed the blunt head of his cock against her lower belly.

Granger's skin was cool to the touch, and so very soft. She furrowed her brow in her sleep, pursing her lips slightly. Her right hand remained between their faces, palm up and fingers curled. She looked innocent in sleep, and that thought sent a fresh wave of arousal spearing through Draco.

Quim was quim, Draco told himself, and from the extremely eager state of his penis, this one had been rather good.  
The grinding of his hips against Granger's dragged the crumpled sheets further under them, offering Draco a first (sober) glimpse of her breasts. They weren't overly large, as he was partial to. On the small side really, which was a shame.

He was vaguely aware that a snotty little voice at the back of his head had been shouting for some time now, "Hey! You're looking at Granger's tits!"  
Yes, welcome back brain. Where were you six hours ago?

He indulged himself by cupping her right breast, squeezing it and then watching interestedly as the light pink nipples quickly hardened and flushed. The sudden change from sitting upright, to lying on his side caused a dizzying rush of blood to flow to his head. For a moment, Draco fought the urge to give in to nausea. The foul taste in his mouth and the stale smell of cigarette smoke and old carpet was not helping matters. Without giving it too much thought, he closed his eyes pressed his mouth and nose against Granger's hairline, breathing in her scent. Something, anything that would take his mind off his roiling stomach.

There it was again- vanilla and roses. But there was also sweat, and the unmistakable musk of sex. Feeling fortified, Draco hitched her leg up further over his hips. With a careful hand, he reached once more between their bodies and slowly guided his cock between her legs. The sensation of his own hand on his aching flesh was heavenly enough, but once he had tucked it snugly against the damp, curls between Granger's thighs, the sensation was heightened.

She was well prepared for him; sticky, coated with her own lubricant and what Draco assumed to be his previous contributions to the cause. This worked well to his advantage as it provided a smooth glide right into the heat of her.

And still she slept.

Draco's eyes rolled back into his head as he grunted softly. All the stupid, tacky words he had heard associated with the female sex sang through his head. Granger was incredibly swollen, and tight beyond description. Glove, velvet, snug, grip, pull, tug, friction, suction, cunt. It all applied.

More flashes of memory. Of Granger's laughter muffled into his shoulder as they hurriedly walked away from the festivities in the Great Hall and followed the trail that would lead them to Hogsmeade. Granger calling him a bigoted, waste of magical talent and then shoving him away from her. More fuzzy, distorted shapes, the feeling of minor triumph at an accepted kiss, and the thrill of anticipation that followed.

The sound of an Apparition 'pop'. A faint feeling of danger, dulled by excitement.

Another memory dislodged itself from the repository, this one even more pristine that the rest. Granger seated astride on the chair that now lay broken, her curly head bobbing up and down over him, his slow, steady instructions as his hands fisted in her hair, as he used her mouth with more care than he would have normally shown with his partners.

This particular image succeeded in separating Draco's mind from his body for a split second, and his hips took full opportunity to thrust into Granger forcefully enough to push her back along the bed.

"Ow," she whispered in a raspy voice, her brow now furrowed. She licked her lips in exactly the same manner Draco had done minutes earlier. Her eyes were moving rapidly under her closed eyelids.

Watching her face carefully, Draco thrust hard again.

"Uhhn." Her furrowed brow re-doubled. She was waking up.

For some unknown reason, which didn't bear thinking about at that point in time, his mother's voice sounded in his head.

_"These dalliances with every pretty, young witch you happen upon will not last."_ Narcissa Malfoy had told him the previous summer. _"This period will pass, whereupon you shall find yourself a witch of good standing."_

Well then. Best to get the first part over and done with, Draco decided. Ignoring what was developing to be a headache of epic proportions, he flipped Granger onto her back, simultaneously sinking his cock an inch further inside her.

It took a bit of willpower not to fall on her, cover her mouth with a hand and rut until he exploded. The muscles of his biceps felt like jelly, and it took some effort to still the quivering of his arms.

She felt deliciously warm, like a thousand silken threads tightening and loosening over the entire, sensitized length of him. To leave that would be criminal. To pull out would have been a travesty. He was only a man, and as such, was a helpless slave to the ancient rituals of mating.

What goes in must come out, and oh…bloody fucking oath, that felt ever so brilliant.

His lower body was too fatigued to engage in any rhythmic, deep thrusting. It was less than artful, but it was still bliss. Another two movements were all it took.

Draco bit down hard on his lower lip and miraculously emptied more of himself into her.

It was at that precise point, that Hermione Granger's brown eyes snapped open.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

"Get off," Granger rasped. Her eyes had gone so wide Draco was able to make out the tiny flecks of gold around the irises.

"I think I just did," Draco said, and then might have slapped himself at his lack of tact. It wasn't that he cared about being polite. That would have required too much energy.

Rather, he was suffering from an acute case of post coital lethargy, and finding the will to verbally spar with a furious Hermione Granger was too much to contemplate at that point.

Perhaps she might consent to going back to sleep for oh…another hour or two? She had gone quite rigid under him. It felt like he was lying on the clay dummy they used to practice resuscitation spells on in sixth year Charms. Gone was the welcoming softness, but the warmth was still there.

In fact, the blush on her face was so pronounced; she looked liable to spontaneously combust.

"Get off me. _Now_," she repeated, more forcefully this time. The petrified house elf look was gone, replaced with a familiar Head Girl glare.

Draco sighed. Guess not.

Her fingernails were digging fiercely into his shoulders. He might have complained about that too, but all he managed to muster was an annoyed wince.

The girl may have been a shrew, but she was damned good lay. He couldn't ever remember feeling so wiped out after a session. His cock had gone quite soft now, though her frantic wriggling beneath him was causing all sorts of pleasant jolts of friction.

Cursing silently, he obliged by rolling off of her and collapsing heavily on the mattress.

An explanation was probably in order, he surmised. The trouble was that he was next to clueless about what had transpired from the moment they had left the Graduation Party together, to the point where he had awakened with a hangover and a raging hard on. Other than a few choice flashes of what certainly qualified as first class shagging, he consistently drew a blank every time he attempted to pry the lid of his booze addled memory. Perhaps all those nights out with Goyle and the lads, experimenting with the human body's tolerance to alcohol had finally taken a toll on his brain cells.

Draco didn't like not remembering. It unsettled him.

"Granger, I don't suppose you-"

He was talking to thin air. There was a glimpse of bare leg disappearing behind the door of the bathroom, before said door was slammed hard enough to stir the horrid vertical blinds on the other side of the room.

A few seconds later, the door re-opened, and a hand darted around to grab the brassiere hanging from the doorknob.

It shut again just as forcefully.

Not in the least bit perturbed, Draco pulled the tangled sheets over his midsection, closing his eyes just as he heard the shower turn on in the bath.

**

Hermione was doing her best to ignore the large, heart shaped mirror over the pink vanity. The shower was running on full blast, but she was not yet under it. She waited until the room was sufficiently saturated with steam before passing a flat palm over the glass and wiping away the condensation.

She stared at her reflection.

Her eyes passed dispassionately over the dark circles under her eyes, taking in the pallor of her face and the redness of her lips. Her lips were naturally bee-stung, but that morning, they were nearly double in size. She sucked her lower lip into her mouth, seeking out the tiny splits and tears with her tongue. There were whisker burns at the corner of her mouth and under her right ear lobe. With a hand that shook slightly, she reached up to touch the red patch on the side of her neck. She pushed her steam dampened hair off her face. Her makeup was smeared. The remnants of her stay-fast mascara added to the rings under her eyes. All trace of lipstick was long gone. It looked like she had lost a small pearl stud earring as well.

Hermione thought her eyes looked duller than usual, but then they had never been a vibrant colour. Brown eyes were utilitarian, in her opinion. Nothing at all like Harry's startling, catch-your-breath green or Ron's chameleon hazel, or Malfoy's scalpel silver.

_Malfoy._

Hermione groaned, dropping her face into her hands. He didn't remember, she realized, in mild disbelief. She wasn't sure whether to be insulted or relieved. The bastard had even been in good enough spirits to help himself to another round of…of-

Gah! She couldn't even bring herself to even think it, although she recalled articulating in fine detail what she wanted from him five or six hours ago. Malfoy had obliged her, and then some. Muscles she didn't even know she had were twitching deep inside of her, coming back to life now that she was awake. There was a dull cramp in her lower belly, not unlike the discomfort she sometimes got during periods, but different, at the same time. It was a pity that she wasn't fortunate enough to suffer from memory loss after a binge.

Hermione didn't drink very often, and had only got severely drunk two or three times with the boys, and once over New Years with her cousins. There were the dreaded hangovers, usually, and the chucking up that invariably came after sharing a bottle of Tequila Tapatio with a well meaning Ron and Harry.

When it came to recollection, however, Hermione had no problems. She was a systematic thinker. When faced with a dilemma, a solution could almost always be formulated by going back to the start of the problem and re-tracing her steps. Her mind was clamouring to do just this, given that sleeping with Draco Malfoy certainly qualified as a rather large dilemma-slash-problem.

"Graduation," she whispered to her reflection, sounding reproachful.

The face in the mirror stared back at her with a forlorn expression. Graduation, drinks and euphoria had culminated in the worst lapse of judgment she had committed since turning herself into Millicent Bulstrode's cat in their second year.

Why their graduation celebrations had wiped her worry-slate clean was a mystery. There had been nothing to celebrate. Voldemort was still at large; Death Eaters were still conducting sporadic attacks on wizarding households. Aurors were being recruited by the dozen, and security was at an all time high. It should have been a toned down celebration, instead of what it _had_ been.

She remembered slipping on her formal robes as if on autopilot, before making the last minute arrangements as befitted her soon-to-be-relinquished duties as Head Girl. When she had finally walked down to the Great Hall thirty minutes after the party had officially started, the festivities were in full swing.

The mood had been contagious. There were couples everywhere, laughing, dancing and engaging in obviously deep and meaningful conversations judging from the intense looks on their faces.

Their NEWTS were over and done with. No more exams, no more classes. No more battling evil, psychotic wizards and then having to take an Arithmancy test early the next morning. In two weeks, she would be leaving the place she had called home for the past seven years. There would be no coming back. She had accomplished so much at Hogwarts, done things she never would have thought possible.

And yet there was _regret_. Over what, she wasn't certain.

She had thought about what she would miss the most about Hogwarts. The more she watched her classmates, the more restless she became. Suddenly, the thought of packing up her much loved Head Girl's room and making a more permanent move back into her old room at her parents' house over the summer seemed nothing short of depressing.

Maybe it had been the sight of Harry, smiling for the first time in weeks, as a pretty, blonde, Hufflepuff whispered in his ear. Or Seamus Finnegan bravely risking Ron's wrath by snogging enthusiastically with Ginny under the streamers. Parvati Patil gave new meaning to the term 'alight with happiness' when she flitted about the Hall, showing off her newly acquired engagement ring. No matter that she and Justin Finch-Fletchly had broken up and gotten back together four times that year.

Even the Slytherins were uncharacteristically jovial. Gregory Goyle was bouncing a laughing Pansy Parkinson on his knee, while Blaise Zabini had shed his usual Head Boy mask of authority long enough to lead a grinning Ravenclaw out to the dance floor.

And Hermione had stood amidst it all, dizzy with nostalgia and a strange melancholy, surrounded by more than a hundred of her classmates, and yet completely, inexplicably _alone_.

She made her way to the punch, and there she remained for the next two hours. Morose and maudlin.

Three or four non-alcoholic drinks later, she noticed Draco Malfoy.

Her fellow prefect was lounging at the far end of the Great Hall, to the left of the wide doors. He was watching the crowd with an unreadable expression, arms folded across his chest, dressed in finely-tailored formal robes in shade of tactile black that sucked the candlelight in the room towards him.

A romanticized version of the story might have had their eyes meeting across the crowded hall, where they would share a quiet, but meaningful look crystallizing years of alleged sexual tension. But this was Draco Malfoy, and Draco Malfoy simply did not _do_ wistful or romantic. He kept his eyes on the crowd, and Hermione kept her eyes on him.

She watched him for a long time. Everyone watched Draco Malfoy. It was hard not to. He was a prefect, and he was Captain and Seeker of Slytherin Quidditch. Academically, he was ranked among the top five students in the school, tying with Padma Patil from Ravenclaw, and sitting three and a half points below Hermione herself.

He wasn't the most subtle-minded of Slytherins either, strutting around the school like the world owed him a living. Oh and he also happened to be an irredeemably _awful_ person.

Over the years, Draco Malfoy hadn't changed much in the way of personality, but he had grown up in other ways.  
There was no logical reason why Hermione had chosen that night, of all nights, to allow her mild physical interest in Malfoy to run unchecked. She was only a girl, she supposed, a teenager with the requisite barrage of hormones pulling her in this direction or that. Usually, she kept a tight leash on her more impractical impulses. Her feelings were unchanged about Malfoy, but she still found it remarkable that a person could find another to be so attractive, and yet so unpleasant.

To her amazement, she had found herself putting one foot in front of the other, as she walked across the Great Hall towards him, holding two glasses of punch and wondering where her unusual bravado was coming from.  
He dressed to the left, she noted, judging from the way the slight, bulge resided on the left of his trouser delta. Her face was on fire as she thought this, but that was ok because there was only candlelight in the Great Hall and everyone else was too preoccupied to pay her much heed.

On a whim, she tried to picture what that part of him would look like. Pale, like the rest of him, except flushed with pink. She wondered about the feel of him. The heat and the weight, the sensation of running her thumb across a moist, blunt tip. She imagined him closing his eyes, his mouth forming a silent 'ah'.

But no, surely Draco Malfoy was not so plebeian as to actually show real emotion, even during sex. Even on a celebratory night such as that. As a prefect and Head Girl, she was allowed unrestricted entry to common rooms and other nooks and crannies around the castle frequently visited by stealthy students. She had heard the whispers and the smothered giggles.

If the hyperbolic claims of Hogwarts senior female population were to be believed, dubious family connections aside, Draco Malfoy was considered to be quite the catch.

Her mouth had gone dry as she approached him, wondering why her common sense seemed to have deserted her. A melting, pulsing sensation unfurled lower down her body, equal parts nervous arousal and the realisation she was carrying out some sort of personal challenge.

Their eyes met. He held her gaze for a brief moment; before his stare dipped lower to inspect her person with routine insolence.

They spoke. Beginning with thinly veiled insults disguised as banter. Seven years of practice had made them exceedingly good at this. The talk progressed to prefectorial matters. He played with his wand as he spoke, twirling it with his long fingers.

It wasn't until she asked him about his plans after school, did he realise she wasn't just there to check up on duties with the only prefect who wasn't completely blotto.

He had looked stunned for a few seconds and Hermione could fully appreciate the absurdity of the situation. Her confidence waned with each thundering heartbeat.

Malfoy stared at her, his grey eyes picking up details and analysing them with great speed. He had frowned slightly, suspicion and amusement settling over his fine features for a fleeting moment. But then he smiled. Not a smirk, not a leer, not gloating, but a slow, knowing smile to charm the fangs off a vampire.

He inhaled lowly, rising to his full height, which was nearly two heads taller than her.

"Would you like to go somewhere a little less…festive?" he asked, completely deadpan. His voice had transformed from snide and snooty to something else. She had never heard Draco speak to anyone like that before, although no doubt he used this talent sparingly and to great advantage.

Hermione recalled thinking that _that_ sort of composure ought to have been illegal. She was much more accustomed to Harry's endearing guilelessness and Ron's sincere charm. Under her robes, her knees were fairly knocking together. She was standing at the intersection of Moral Dilemma Junction.

All that was needed, Hermione now thought, with wry amusement, was the commentary:

_Behind door number one, Miss Granger, are safe, semi-erotic dreams in your own bed, your own sheets and a giggle with your girlfriends in the morning over how you almost propositioned Draco Malfoy! But behind door number two, if you would be as bold as to open it, is a one-way ticket to hell and all the sulphur and brimstone you can handle. Hot? Yes. Punishing? Most assuredly. But the devil has eyes like an ancient glacier and the most beautiful hands you've seen on a person. And even though you hate him and everything he stands for, you want something this evening only he seems capable of providing…_

Malfoy, cursed mind reader that he was, had seemingly allowed her these doubts. He waited quietly for her troubled expression to clear before offering her his arm. He was largely the same arrogant son of a Death Eater he had been since first year, and yet there was a maturity about him that had completely bypassed other boys. Draco was a man completely at ease in his skin.

It had to be the clothes. Maybe wearing a month's salary worth of material on one's back was enough to ensure that stumbling, fidgeting and stammering were avoided.

She may have scored the highest NEWTS in over a century, but Hermione Granger called herself all sorts of fool as she put her memories on pause, and stepped under the scalding hot shower spray in the Pepto Bismol - coloured hotel bathroom. She winced at the intensified stinging of the numerous sore spots over her body.

Grabbing the soap and a face towel, she set about attempting to wash away the remnants of the previous night.

Her hands scrubbed particularly ferociously at a spot just above her hipbone.

It was an exercise in futility, seeing as marriage tattoos would _not_ wash off.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Draco was awake when Hermione finally stepped out of the bathroom. He lay on the bed, hands folded behind his head, contemplating the cottage cheese effect on the ceiling. There was a distinct damp spot under the small of his back, but he was too lazy to move. He lolled his head to his side, watching as she tightened the belt on the pink bathrobe she was wearing.

Hermione meanwhile was suddenly very conscious of her wet hair, swollen, red eyes and her lower lip, which was sticking out just slightly. She sucked it in. Nothing he could say to her now could possibly be worse than the self castigation she had just put herself through. As usual, however, Malfoy was not to be underestimated.

"Do you miss it?"

"Do I miss what?" Hermione asked, her hackles already rising.

There was a smile in his voice. "The stick I managed to knock loose from your arse last night."

She had planned to break the Big Bad News to him in a civil manner, but that idea was soon thrown out the window.

"You miserable, in-bred, wasteful excuse for a wizard," she told him, gritting her teeth.

He tossed the sheet away and got to his feet. Hermione felt her advantage all but whittle away. God, the boy was tall. It was hard to maintain your equilibrium when you were in the same room as an annoyed, snarky, _tall_, son of a former Death Eater.

And did he have to be quite so naked? They were sober, for heaven's sake. And it was...daytime.

Hermione steeled herself, anticipating a barrage of verbal abuse. But he didn't come for her, didn't even look at her. Rather, he seemed entirely occupied collecting his clothing. For some reason, this annoyed her even more.

"Get off your high horse Granger," Malfoy said wearily, as he located his shoes and set them on the dresser. "In the real world, yes, even the magical world, people have sex. That's how we make little wizards and witches."

The hair on the right side of his head was sticking straight out, such that it was nearly parallel to the ground. He must have slept on his left, because the hair on that portion was pressed flat to his scalp. All in all, he was as dishevelled as she had ever seen him, but for some reason, that served to make him all the more intimidating. The veneer of pure blood civility and manners was gone.

All that was left was Draco Malfoy and his horrible personality.

Part of her was going to enjoy telling him.

Hermione focused on a carpet stain, breathing deeply. She parted the edges of her bathrobe, completely exposing one leg, from toe to hipbone.

"Malfoy," she began, in a voice that was brittle with nerves, there's something you should know."

He was examining his wrinkled robes with an expression of distaste. "And that would be?" he inquired, finally looking at her. His eyes widened slightly as they traveled up her leg, but then narrowed to slivers when he caught sight of what she was showing him.

Draco Malfoy was a fair boy, but he must have lost two shades of colour in the space of a heartbeat.

"Oh, hell," he said, dropping his clothes to the floor.

_Yes!_ Hermione thought, with a dash of sadistic relish. _Welcome to my world._

She might have relayed the plan she had already formulated while in the shower, had he not decided to suddenly turn into a psychotic. Malfoy grabbed onto the front of her robes and hauled her to him hard enough to cause her teeth to click together painfully. She swore and kicked out at him, her toes dangling a centimetre off the carpet.

"How? When?" he demanded, sounding gratifyingly incoherent.

"Let go of me, you wanker," Hermione hissed in return. "It was neither of our ideas. After leaving Hogwarts, we went to a pub in Diagon Alley."

"The Leaky Cauldron?"

She made a 'pfft' sound. "Yes, Malfoy. We went to the Leaky Cauldron where everyone knows who we are, and came over to wish us luck on our first date."

He didn't respond to her sarcasm, but he did set down on her feet. The scowl on his face was so fierce Hermione imagined it might have caused even Viktor Krum to throw up his hands in defeat and swallow a happy pill.

"The Snake and Stone, then?"

Hermione nodded, rubbing the back of her neck where she was sure a rather nasty towel burn was forming.

"They had a tattoo place on the second floor of the pub. You wanted to look inside. We went in and I'm not quite sure how it happened, but we ended up-"

He was giving her a sceptical look. "Did you drug me?"

Her gasp of outrage was probably heard three blocks away. She took a step forward, fully intending to smack him in the face, or failing that, injure any other part of him. Her hand reached within three inches of his cheek before he caught her wrist.

"You got away with that when we were children, but slap me again, Granger, and I'll break your fingers. Do you understand?" he threatened.

Undaunted, she swung one small foot around, contacting hard with his right shin. He grunted in pain and twisted her captured arm behind her back. The strength that had made her knees delightfully weak the night before was now sending her into a rising spiral of panic.

With her arm still locked behind her, he pushed her face first onto the bed, and tossed the hem of the bathrobe over her head. Her indignant shrieks were muffled by the mattress. It wasn't until she felt his warm fingers on her hip did she cease her struggles. He was cursing rapidly in at least three languages.

Draco was momentarily speechless.

There was a dragon tattooed into her hip. Not a western dragon, but a sleek, serpentine Oriental done in bright, silver ink. Enchanted of course, given that it sparkled like diamond dust on her skin. It was not a small or insignificant marking either. The dragon's elegant, tapered head began just below her right hipbone, its scaly body and long tail wrapping around her upper thigh and disappearing into the crease where her upper torso ended and her legs began.

The tattoo gave the impression that the creature was making a slow slither up her body.

It was a fucking marriage tattoo, was what it was. A rare practice from old times, but still carried out by couples that sought more than just an exchanging of vows to mark their union. He could feel the faint static buzz of the enchantment as soon as she had revealed it to him; felt it in his nerve endings, travelling along his spine, tingling at the skin on his back.

It was also quite remarkable. The small, childlike part of him that never failed to be routinely surprised by magic and was sitting up and paying attention.

Of _all_ the things they could have done while drunk and out on the town, they had gone into a seedy back alley tavern cum tattoo parlour, and endured the short marriage ceremony and much longer inking of skin.

Watching from a cloud somewhere, Draco was certain that a deity was laughing uproariously at them.

The blasted charm was going to take a bit of clever magic to undo. Granted he was no expert on Incredibly Stupid Spells, but from what he knew, marriage tattoos constituted blood magic and as such were notoriously difficult to remove.

Not unlike the Dark Mark, Draco thought, with a sigh. Only two Death Eaters had ever attempted to remove said Mark and currently, only one was alive to tell the tale.

They would have the marriage annulled as soon as practicable, of course, and no one would be the wiser. No heads would roll. No one would need to be strategically shoved out of a tall window to keep from talking. Money would ease the situation, of course. Even the largest blunders could be remedied with a lot of money and bit of thuggery. Beneath him, meanwhile, Granger was taking advantage of his distraction and was attempting to elbow him in the balls.

"Oh no, you don't," he chided softly, watching as her back arched to reduce the pressure on her tendons. He realized he was probably hurting her and loosened his grip.

Miraculously, despite the severity of the situation, Draco felt himself getting hard. He continued his inspection of her tattoo, but this time, with more curiosity than dread. His fingers traced the pattern along her smooth skin, running lightly over and under her upper thigh. With her backside up the air like it was, he had an unobstructed view of parts of her she would never see so clearly without the aid of a hand mirror. It was a purely aesthetic appreciation, he supposed. Granger was pink, clean and slightly damp from her shower. She also had quite possibly the nicest bits he had seen on a girl. A pretty cunt, in his authoritative opinion. He grasped a buttock lightly and ran his thumb just outside the crease, all the way down to her inner thigh. There was a nasty bruise there, right beside the point where the dragon's spiked tail came to an end.

Draco settled his thumb over the spot. It was a perfect fit. It didn't surprise him that sex with Granger had been so volatile. There was nothing calm and pleasant about their relationship, either in bed or out of it. It wasn't until he brushed his knuckles against the curls between her legs did she flinch and turn her head to glare at him. Her white thighs were flushed, and as gently as he was touching her, his fingers till left a faint, red trail.

For a moment, he was mesmerised.

"Are you quite finished?" The sentence could have chilled butterbeer at fifteen paces.

_Quite finished_, Draco silently agreed, with resignation. _And now back to our scheduled matinee, entitled, 'I Woke Up Married To A Mudblood and All I Got Was A Bloody Tattoo_'.

Abruptly, he got off of her and went to retrieve his robes and trousers. Granger sat on the edge of the bed, unmoving, until he picked up his wand from the dresser and walked towards her.

With a worried look, she scrambled backwards over the bed.

Draco rolled his eyes. "I have yet to cast my first Killing Curse, and you're flattering yourself if you think I'd use it on you," he said, buttoning his fly.

Only she wasn't paying attention to him. Her eyes were now fixed on the mirror behind him. She then transferred her stare to his face. He might have described her expression as smug, which was very un-Grangerlike of her.

Feeling the hairs on his arms stand on end, Draco twisted around to have a look.

"Bloody hell," he whispered, touching the set of gleaming, coal-black wings that spanned his upper back.

They wrapped around him, the tips of the long, intricately tattooed feathers ended on either side of his ribcage. One wing was broken and folded in slightly. It could have been quite the work of art, if it didn't represent everything that was nausea inducing.

Hermione watched Draco's horror mingle with fascination as he walked up to the mirror to get a closer look at his back. She had thought his tattoo to be spellbindingly beautiful when she first laid eyes on it. Now, however, it made her want to hide her head in a hole and scream until her voice gave out.

Despite the situation, the researcher in her found it odd that Malfoy should have a set of wings, albeit broken ones, while she had been marked with a dragon. To her growing annoyance, her knowledge on magical tattoos was minimal. This was compounded by the fact that the topic itself was overshadowed by Voldemort's Dark Mark and any real interest in the area was often regarded with a healthy dose of suspicion.

"We'll have it undone," Draco said, swallowing. "As soon as possible."

Through the mirror, she gave him a look that suggested he spoke the extremely obvious.

"Of course, when it's all over, you don't have to Obliviate yourself if you don't want to. I understand if you'd like to keep some of the memories." He smirked at her.

"It would be just like you to be that delusional. It might be news to you to know that I usually find you disgusting, Malfoy. Last night was a mistake, and you bloody well know it." She might have spat at him if she had been close enough. Regrettably, she had chosen to sit out on the third year, projectile-spitting sessions conducted by Ron, Harry and Dean Thomas, over the North Tower.

From the looks of things, namely the vein standing out on his right temple, Malfoy didn't take kindly to backchat.

With a determined expression, he pulled her up by the front of her bathrobe, like a mother cat picking up a wayward kitten, and set her before him in front of the mirror. One steely arm wrapped around her waist. It was a far gentler grip then what he had used before, but Hermione was helpless to wriggle out of it.

"You're a rotten liar, Granger," he said against her neck. "And I hate liars." He pushed her ankles apart with his foot. Once her legs were sufficiently parted, he shoved aside the edges of her untied bathrobe and slid a hand down her belly. Hermione blinked fast and hard, hoping to blur the image displayed in the mirror before her.

It was like watching a car crash, horrible to behold, not the least because it was happening to her.

She was couldn't make herself look away.

He made a sound of approval when he slid two fingers between her legs. Or then again it might have been a sound of vindication. With Malfoy, it was hard to tell.

She wasn't exactly wet, most of it was dampness from her shower, but it was the act that shut her up. She looked mortified. Someone with more experience might have retorted with a couple of choice comments about the bulge in his own robes, but Hermione remained silent, her eyes mutinous and downcast.

A creeping suspicion hit Draco then, but he soon dismissed it. Nobody who could give a blowjob the way Granger did could have possibly been a novice. She was a quick learner, granted, but she wasn't that quick. Idly, he wondered whom she'd practiced on before him. Potter? Not likely. Vanquisher of wizarding villains he may have been, but the boy was probably afraid of the shadow his erect cock would cast. Krum? Perhaps. Weasley, more likely. Like knew like, and Draco had often pondered that there was more to the freckled, perpetually grinning moron that met the eye.

"You're repellent," Granger chose then to inform him and had to applaud her effort at variation. 'Disgusting' was becoming somewhat overused.

"Keep saying that and I'll show you exactly how repellent I can be," he promised, as he withdrew his fingers from her and made a show of wiping them on her bathrobe.

"There's no recourse for superiority in this instance. Yes, you got royally screwed by my Pureblooded person. Yes, you enjoyed it, but no, I don't intend to ever repeat what happened last night." And this morning, his brain cheerfully reminded him. "So you can stop clutching that bathrobe to you as if it were a chastity charm."

It was probably killing her to be at a loss, both for words and for logic. Those were her defences, Draco realised. In that respect, perhaps they weren't so different after all. He used words too, only to greater effect.

A quick glance at the wall clock revealed that it was close to noon. They had wasted enough time. If they were going to find a discreet, effective and most likely expensive solution to the tattoo charms, they were going to need help.

It was time to call in the Big Wands, so to speak.

He released her. "Get dressed. We've leaving."

Her expression was a perfect blend of suspicious and hopefulness. "Why? Where are we going?"

The look that Draco gave her was dread squared to the power of infinity. "To see my father."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

It was a slightly subdued scene on the Saturday morning after the seventh years' graduation party. As was tradition, much to Madam's Pomfrey's grumbling, there had been a slow, meandering queue outside the Infirmary for headache potions.

More than a few sixth and seventh years had forgone breakfast in favour of a few extra hours sleep. The ones who had managed to get themselves showered, dressed and somewhat organised were nursing sore heads and churning stomachs as they gathered for breakfast in the Great Hall.

Ron Weasley had not gone to bed as yet, having consumed twice the lethal adult dosage of black coffee. As such, he was bug-eyed and chatty, chewing quickly on a piece of toast as he spoke.

"Erection problems, performance anxiety, bashful willy- lots of different terms for it, Harry. Really, you shouldn't feel too badly. Happens to every bloke every now and then."

Harry Potter was slumped over on the table, head pillowed on his folded arms. His hair appeared to be making a token effort at being tousled. It too appeared tired and withdrawn. At first glance, he looked to be asleep, but for the occasional groan. He was in no mood to rise to Ron's less than subtle teasing.

"Drinking doesn't help, of course," continued Ron as he spread a healthy dollop of blueberry jam on his bread. "What with having to run to the loo every half hour, falling asleep at inopportune times, having to goad the old matador into taking the arena, even if he's looking slightly, er, droopy…"

"Ron, if you have to be obscene this early in the day, could you at least pass notes?" Ginny grumbled, looking up from her porridge. Ginny's usually peaches and cream complexion was presently as grey as her breakfast. Even her freckles looked faded. Every so often, she would cover her mouth with a hand, her eyes taking on a glassy, unfocussed look.

"Sorry." Ron grinned at his sister's queasiness. He reached for a quill from his book bag, picked up a napkin and spent the next two minutes scribbling gleefully onto it. "Pass to Harry please."

Ginny snatched the napkin from her brother and slapped it down in front of Harry.

"Cheer up, Harry," Ron said, folding his bread in half. "I'm sure Alice Crowley is an understanding sort of girl."

"I'm never drinking again," Harry said. He fingered the napkin with a desolate expression. "_Ever_."

Everyone within earshot nodded solemnly. Ginny even managed to pat Harry consolingly on the shoulder, but no one took this declaration very seriously. Ginny, having discovered the evils of champagne cocktails for the first time during the graduation party, had made the same declaration minutes before.

As far as post-celebratory recovery went, the dialogue was standard.

"I doubt Alice would have noticed anyway, Ron assured. "Harry, pass the eggs, please. No, no, the other one! I like my yokes runny."

Ginny swallowed audibly and set down her spoon.

Harry distractedly set the platter of fried eggs before his friend. "Oh. She noticed, all right. I mean, I really intending to do anything, but then she started getting very...familiar with me. God, the news has probably spread all over Hufflepuff by now."

Ron opened his mouth, ready to deliver another bout of reassurance, but was interrupted by the noisy arrival of Seamus Finnegan.

"Morning!" boomed Seamus, throwing open the Great Hall doors and walking over to sit with his classmates. The seventh year Gryffindor was sporting orange-tinted skin, indicating that he had just received a dosage of Pomfrey's patented headache banisher. This of course explained his good mood. For optimum results, the draught was often administered with a mild cheering charm.

Ginny winced at the noise, mumbling what sounded like bloodyloudIrish under her breath. Though, she still looked marginally cheered at the arrival of her 'sort of' boyfriend.

"Glorious day!" Seamus declared, as he pilfered a tray of toast from a group of fourth years and squeezed his way in between Ginny and Ron. He surveyed the groggy faces around him. "Where's your Graduation Spirit, then?" he inquired, before proceeding to hum the school song as he piled his plate with bacon, eggs, kippers and toast.

"It's lying dormant until I graduate," Ginny told him. "Start singing, Finnegan, and Merlin help me, I won't be responsible for what I do to you." She was fingering her butter knife with deadly intent.

But Seamus had already stopped smiling. He had just spotted Neville, who had been quietly shovelling porridge into his mouth several seats down from Harry. The boy was attempting to disappear behind a particularly large bowl of fruit.

"That was some move you pulled last night, Longbottom."

Neville looked extremely uncomfortable. "Seamus, it was an accident. You know it was."

"What's this?" Ron asked, looking from Seamus' disapproving glare, to Neville's red face.

Seamus folded his arms. "Our dear Neville dropped his trousers in front of Ginny and Susan Bones yesterday evening."

Harry's head came up, his own humiliation momentarily forgotten. "Neville did what?"

Neville shook his head. "Not on purpose! It was an emergency, I had to go really badly and well, there was nobody around, so I went into the bushes, right? We've all done it one time or another!" He gave the other boys hopeful looks. "I thought I had a good look around before…only…"

Harry started laughing, while Ron seemed torn between sympathy and anger. "Neville! You're a dead man! That's my sister!"

Ginny rolled her eyes. "What shocking hypocrisy, Ron. I have six brothers, it's not like I haven't seen a-"

Ron slapped a hand over his sister's mouth. "You're supposed to be sweet and pure. Mum would have my head otherwise. Accordingly you have most certainly _not_ seen one of those," he said, very clearly, as if proper enunciation would make it true. "Neither will you see, er, one until you're at least thirty."

Ginny shoved her brother in the arm, whereupon Ron took to staring at Neville again. Harry, meanwhile, had found his first smile of the day. "Good to see I'm not the only one having troubles this morning."

No sooner had he spoken was the tentative calm broken.

"All hail Potter, the conquering hero!" called Dean Thomas, who had just strolled into the Great Hall. Like Seamus, he too was glowing a faint orange.

Ron vigorously shook his head.

"Banners soaring! Bravely did he infiltrate the ranks of House Hufflepuff to steal away their prized flower!"

Ginny rolled her eyes into her juice glass.

"Flag held high, charging into the thick!"

Neville groaned.

Harry was now a shade of deep scarlet. "SHUT UP THOMAS! There was no soaring banner! The bloody flag never left the ground!"

At the other tables, students were looking up from their breakfasts. Dean looked stunned for a moment, before breaking into a wide grin. "Cor, what happened?"

Harry sighed. "I expect you'll hear about it soon enough."

Collectively, the friends turned to observe the Hufflepuff table, where the very attractive Alice Crowley, Harry's dance partner the previous evening, was currently whispering intently into Susan Bones' ear. In addition, at least six Hufflepuff boys were staring daggers at both Harry and Neville.

"Lovely," said Neville, with a courageous sort of resignation that came from being in Snape's Potions class for seven years. "If we don't have black eyes by first period, Monday, I honestly won't know why."

Ginny chuckled. "Hermione will protect you, Neville. It's good to know the Head Girl."

"Where is Hermione anyway?" Harry asked, looking around the hall. Granted, it wasn't odd for Hermione to be absent at breakfast. The girl was often up and about an hour earlier than most other students, and was known to take her breakfast with her on her rounds in the mornings. But it was a weekend, and Hermione usually made a special effort to attend breakfast with the rest of her housemates.

Ron was pushing warm madeleines into his mouth, two at a time. "Sheaf at fer mums for the weekend. Letter came jhuff before you arrived downstairs." A neatly folded letter was produced from under Ron's plate and passed to Harry to read. "So much for protection then," Ginny commented, watching with amusement as Tim Gaggleby, a Hufflepuff Beater, narrowed his eyes at Neville and slowly ground a meaty first into a large palm.

"Come on, you lot," Ron appealed. He pushed away his now empty plate and then launched into a long, noisy yawn. "It'd be downright indecent to mope about now. School's finished. Apart from Voldemort and the odd bout of acne, life is sweet."

**

Life had a tendency of throwing you a sticky obstacle when you least expected.

One year ago, she'd been happily consumed with the occasional plot against Wizarding Evil, NEWTS, friends and the various responsibilities that came with the appointment of Head Girl.

One day ago, she'd been reasonably happy, passably carefree, and more importantly, single.

One hour ago, she'd been confident on surviving the remainder of the day.

Hermione wasn't so sure now.

Curiosity might have killed the proverbial cat, but she'd be damned if she was going to let it take her without a fight.

She sat across from Draco in the horseless carriage that would take them on the fifteen minute journey from the tiny magical village of Thimble Creek to Malfoy Manor. Their departure from the dingy Muggle hotel in London had been a quiet, moody affair. The taciturn silence had been welcomed at first. But now, it only served to amplify the tension.

And God, was there tension.

They had made a pit stop at Diagon Alley Post Office, where Hermione had spent an excruciating twenty minutes writing letters, one to Ron and Harry ('just popping over to my mum's for the day…') and another to McGonagall ('will be spending the weekend with family. Apologies for the short notice…').

She wasn't particularly good at fibbing, although really, her time with the boys ought to have made her a master in the concoction of dubious truth. While Ron and Harry were adept at delivering effectively gormless expressions, Hermione usually resorted to looks of confusion, convoluted explanations and rapid topic changing, whereupon the unfortunate inquisitor would often dismiss her out of sheer frustration.

This tactic worked well on some occasions (when caught by Filch), and not so well on other occasions (when caught by Snape).

Harry and the others were probably flopped down by the lake about now, beginning the lazy, post party recovery by soaking up the early afternoon sunshine. They'd be playing Exploding Snap, chess or possibly visiting with Hagrid. Ginny would be busy pretending to be smitten by an extremely patient Seamus Finnegan, while avoiding the troubled looks Harry would undoubtedly be sending her.

Neville would probably be assisting Professor Sprout in preparation for his planned Herbology apprenticeship. Blaise Zabini, the very capable Hogwarts Head Boy, would have taken due note of her absence and set about organising the rest of the prefects.

At present, Hermione calculated that she was no more than four hundred miles from Hogwarts, a distance that was of no consequence to one licensed for Apparition. And yet it felt as if she had been catapulted across the other side of the world.

Merely existing had never felt so foreign.

Of course, the tall, moody young wizard riding in the carriage with her had a lot to do with her unease. She had studiously avoided looking at Malfoy since they had climbed into the coach. But she was facing the opposite direction to which they were travelling, and looking out the window at the rapidly backward-moving countryside was giving her motion sickness.

Their brief jaunt through Diagon Alley had been slightly amusing. Hermione was glad that she had not yet sunk so far into panic that she wasn't able to recognise the more comical details of their situation. Malfoy had walked five steps ahead of her the entire time, the hood of his travel cloak pulled down low over his pale face, lest a passerby took note of the fact that a slightly dishevelled looking Hogwarts Head Girl was walking beside him.

Or rather, trailing behind him, the inconsiderate prick.

Twice, on the way to the post office, she had managed to lose sight of him. And twice he had marched up to her, looking extremely annoyed, roughly dragging her forward by her elbow, and then stalking on ahead once again. Malfoy was treating her like a plague victim at the height of contagion. It had been so tempting to pick up a loose cobblestone at her feet and fling it and the back of his blond head, that she shoved her knotted fist into her pocket to quash the urge.

He had all but thrown her into the post office, shoved four sickles into her hand and told her to "be quick about it". Hermione had given him a look of what she had hoped was Extreme and Deadly Contempt, flung the money at his rude person and then took her merry time putting lies to paper.

She had emerged from the post office to find Malfoy already halfway down the street, purposefully heading for the public Floo facility located next to The Three Broomsticks. Gritting her teeth, she had followed, like a surly lamb led by an unwilling shepherd. And from there, they made their way to Thimble Creek, which situated south of the Malfoy estate.

Hermione had always been fascinated by the rich history that surrounded Europe's old wizarding manors. She chalked it down to being born a Muggle, and the feeling of otherworldliness she got every time she read about the really old families- the ones that could trace their lines back at least a thousand years.

It definitely would do something to one's ego, Hermione decided, to flip through the pages of a Magical History compendium and be able to spot numerous mentions of one's ancestral home. It wasn't just the Manors that had colourful tales to tell. Often, it was also the entire surrounding community.

Take Thimble Creek, for example. For nearly four hundred years, the occupants of the tiny, magical village had laboured for the Malfoy wizarding lords, aiding in the upkeep of the massive estate- working in the stables, attending to the gardens, grounds, orchards and vineyards - an entire population in voluntary, paid servitude.

Alas, the once industrious little village had been nearly deserted when she and Malfoy stepped out from the soot-choked fireplace of the local watering hole. The few, elderly wizards present at the bar had stared at them from over the rims of their steins. The looks directed at Draco were far from friendly, and for one worrying moment, Hermione expected a barrage of rotten fruit, or worse, hexes.

But the villagers had kept to themselves, and she and Draco boarded the coach to Malfoy Manor unmolested. If this unwelcome treatment had affected him, he didn't show it.

She had a multitude of questions, as was her nature, but none seemed worthwhile enough to interrupt their momentary truce. For the time being, anyhow.

So many things had changed in the past year. The Death Eater Inquisitions had seen to that. The fortunes of the Malfoys had taken a severe turn following Lucius's very public outing as a Death Eater.

With Cornelius Fudge forcefully removed from his post, it hadn't been long before Arthur Weasley had stepped into the demanding role of Minister of Magic. There hadn't been a nomination for the position; rather, most other candidates of sound mind had valued their longevity enough to steer clear of the post. Even before the brass plaque bearing Arthur's name had been hammered into the door of his office, he had already sanctioned numerous raids and declared martial law for two whole months.

As a result, the only way to reach Malfoy Manor was to physically travel there by carriage. Floo and Apparition to the estate were Warded under the new Ministry regulations, now affectionately known as 'Arthur's Law'.

Under the new rules, and in exchange for 'sensitive and pertinent' information that aided in the subsequent arrest of dozens of Death Eaters and Voldemort sympathisers, Lucius Malfoy was made to serve a sixteen-year house arrest term. No wand, no magic, no friends and a rather nasty curse should he so much as stick his shiny head out the window to check on the state of his withering begonias.

Countless other former Death Eaters had also exchanged lengthy Azkaban prison terms for information. Many higher ups had questioned the efficacy of Arthur's Law, but the fact of the matter was that Azkaban was full to over-flowing and was decidedly less well managed with the Dementors gone. A second prison was in the planning stages but funds were at an all time low. In addition, the Muggle Prime Minister was becoming increasingly interested in the activities of the wizarding community, what with the rising number of Muggleborn wizards seeking to re-enter the Muggle community due to fear of Voldemort.

And even though there was no shortage of youths wanting to sign up for service in the newly formed Minister's Guard (or Auror Lite, as Ron grinningly called them), most units in the various Ministry departments were still suffering from staff shortages. Every spare cent in the dwindling Ministry coffers had been relegated to security, surveillance and Auror intelligence. Precaution was considered a more worthy investment than punishment.

And so Lucius was imprisoned in his gilded cage. Hermione suspected that Harry might have had a lot to say about the decision, but by the end of the trials, he had been simply happy to be able to attend school without worrying that death was stalking him at every turn.

With her husband's bank accounts frozen, Narcissa Black-Malfoy had packed up and left for a cousin's home in Switzerland within two weeks of Lucius' sentence being passed. Little had been known about Narcissa's private life prior to this. The papers had her as a defeated woman, perhaps a little vague, but who had an undeniable talent for keeping up pretences. She was a consummate hostess and when last photographed, at the age of forty, was still incredible beautiful.

She had taken whatever she could Reduce and carry with her when she left, but had chosen to leave her only child in the care of a man many openly called a monster.

Hermione had almost felt sorry for Malfoy. Although he might have garnered more sympathy if he hadn't taken to strutting around school with his chin in the air and an ever-present smirk, silently daring any one to bring up his family situation. Apart from the one tense exchange with Harry at the end of their fifth year, he hadn't directly mentioned Lucius to any of the Trio again.

Draco's suggestion to see his father had at first been met with incredulity from Hermione. After all, it was slightly hard to forget that this was the wizard who had plotted the demise of Muggleborn children at Hogwarts, and the near lethal possession of Ginny.

This was the same man who had stood behind Voldemort and watched as the Dark Lord attempted to murder a fourteen-year old Harry, after already doing away with Cedric Diggory.

Here was the same wizard who had indirectly plotted her own demise in the Brain Room at the Ministry.

The only thing Hermione wanted from Lucius Malfoy was an engraved invitation to his funeral, where she would quite happily spark rumours of her alleged mental imbalance by linking arms with Ginny Weasley and dancing a jig over the bastard's cold, desolate grave.

She had scoffed at Draco, she had sputtered and then she had gone silent, as common sense grudgingly caught up.

He had a point.

If they wanted a quick and clean solution to their predicament, it was likely that Draco's slimy, but well-connected father would be able to assist. Not that Hermione was without her reservations or precautions. She hadn't survived seven years with Ron and Harry out of sheer, dumb luck. The elder Malfoy might have been as good as neutered, but he was still a risk.

Unbeknownst to Draco – although the git would have easily noticed if he had cared to wait in the post office with her – she had written a third missive, with the instructions for the Postmaster to deliver it to Dumbledore if she was not in Diagon Alley within three days to collect it in person.

Granted, a lot could happen in three days, and Hermione supposed that the measure of trust she had given to Draco when she had left school with him during the party now extended to following him home. He could have done away with her many times over by now, but Hermione trusted that although he was a tosser, Draco was _not_ a senseless maniac.

Neither was his father, for that matter. Lucius was a plotter and opportunist, with little regard for morals. It was difficult to second-guess people like that. Trustworthiness and Malfoys were not comfortable bedfellows, and therein lay Hermione's unease.

With boys like Crabbe and Goyle, for example, a crude insult delivered by Ron would usually result in a predictable open attack. When the same was attempted with Draco, it often took weeks before anyone would suspect that Ron's sudden, mysterious outbreak of Giggle-Pox had anything to do with the brief, heated exchange he had shared with Draco more than a month before.

Feeling her dislike of Draco increase exponentially, Hermione folded her arms and finally stared at him.

He sat with his legs crossed, hands resting primly on his knees. On any other boy, the pose might have looked effeminate, but on Draco, he simply looked contained.

Warts, Hermione decided, with a mental nod. It would have been easier to put him in his place if he weren't so attractive. What he needed were few strategically located warts. An overhanging brow and a potato nose wouldn't have gone astray either.

But of course, Malfoy didn't have warts, or spots or blemishes, or any handy physical deformities. She knew this because she had had the time to peruse his body at her leisure. He was six feet and two inches of smooth, white skin. The kind of skin that looked and felt like cream silk in firelight. Girl's skin, except that it was tightly stretched over lean, undeniable masculine muscle.

At some point over the course of the previous year, Draco Malfoy had made the inevitable trek from boyhood to manhood. Oh, there were still vestiges of his boy-self, if one cared to look for them. The almost surly pouting of his lips, for example, or the delicate flush of his cheeks when he physically exerted himself. His hair had not darkened, as was the case with many other light-haired boys. It was still a shade of blond so bright as to be nearly platinum. Hermione suspected this had more to do with his breeding, rather than any late physical development.

Other parts of him were undeniably adult. Hermione might have been slightly in awe of the way he handled himself in intimate situations, save for the fact that she had expected no less from him, even if he was only eighteen. There was nothing ordinary about Malfoy, and it was her greatest regret that it had been this very trait that had possessed her to make what unequivocally qualified as the biggest fuck up of her young life.

The silence inside the carriage was now nearly physically painful. If she wriggled any more in her seat, Hermione thought she was liable to develop calluses on her arse.

Malfoy hadn't so much as shifted since the journey had started. He might have been carved of granite, such was his stillness. A particularly deep pothole in the road jarred her into sitting up a little straighter in her seat. She was hot, clammy and irritable.

No. This silence was not going to do at all.

"How long since you've been home to visit?" she asked, the words rushing out of her mouth before she had time to filter out any unintended meaning.

At first, it seemed that he was content to ignore her, but then he responded. "Since Halloween," he said, his eyes still fixed on what was outside the window.

"That's nearly eight months."

"The Mudblood can do arithmetic. Will wonders never cease?"

Hermione didn't know whether to be insulted over his use of the detestable word, or over the fact that he didn't seem to put much heart into it at all. Truth be told, he hadn't used that particular insult on her in a number of years. It never had the effect on her that it did on Ron, and Malfoy was nothing if not effective.

She sighed. "I was wondering when I'd hear that word again."

"If you don't want to hear it, then don't give me cause to use it," he told her. "While we're on the topic, I'll remind you to keep your mouth shut around my father. I'll do the talking. Speak only when spoken to. Try not to look him in the eye, if possible. I realise it might kill you to do so, but don't ask anything. In fact, don't say anything. Try and be respectful and we'll have little trouble."

Hermione snorted. Now _this_ was insulting. "And here I thought the Pope resided at the Vatican."

He finally looked at her. The breeze that had been blowing through the open window caught the long fringe of his hair and carried it across his forehead. He impatiently brushed it away. "What did you say?" he asked her, his eyes narrowing.

"Nothing. Nothing you'd know about," she muttered absently.

"I know what the fucking Vatican is," he snapped, unexpectedly reverting from disinterested to angry.

Hermione startled slightly, feeling even more unsettled now that his pale gaze was fixed on her. Nervous, and extremely thirsty, she licked her lips. His eyes flickered momentarily to her mouth before moving upwards to her eyes.

"Do you really have to make this any more unpleasant than it already is?" she asked him quietly.

"It's going to get a hell of a lot worse before it gets better, so I suggest you accustom yourself to the unpleasant," he said, with sarcastic emphasis on 'unpleasant'.

"Do you really think your father will know someone who can reverse the spell?" She might as well have asked if castles were made of stone, or if Quidditch was played on broomsticks. "No, Granger. We're going to see my father to have a spot of tea and scones. He so rarely gets to entertain these days what with being a prisoner in his own home."

Hermione scowled. "I would just like to know how exactly you think telling your father is a good idea!"

"Oh I don't know," Malfoy snapped. "Might be that apart from Voldemort himself, my father knows more about the inner workings of dark magic than any other wizard alive. Or because his list of contacts is so long and sordid that despite being Voldemort's second-in-command and guilty of things you couldn't even begin to imagine, he managed to arrange a deal with the Ministry and avoid the whole getting his soul sucked out through his mouth business!"

"_We're_ not complete morons, either, you know," Hermione countered, which made Malfoy roll his eyes at her.

The statement probably qualified as the first compliment she had ever (and likely, would ever) give him.

"Do you think it's a good idea traipsing around school reading about how to remove illegal magical tattoos?" He gave her a narrow-eyed look. "Though I suspect people like yourself have a certain level of freedom the rest of us do not."

Hermione made a frustrated noise. "I'm not beyond suspicion, if that's what you're getting at."

"As am I, despite my enthusiastic campaign over the past two years trying to convince everyone I know that I hate my father and everything he stands for."

That much was true. Whatever could be said about Draco Malfoy, ever since his father's deal with the Ministry, he had made it plain knowledge that he wanted nothing to do with all things Voldemort-related. Of course, many people speculated that this was the only logical tactic by which to maintain his entitlement to anything Malfoy-related.

The Ministry might have already helped itself to a hefty portion of the family's money and holdings in the name of reparations, but there was still a sizeable trust fund, several holiday residences and a looming inheritance from his mother and grandfather. And then there was Malfoy Manor itself...

Belatedly, Hermione realised she really ought to stop reading Witch Weekly.

But Malfoy was right, of course. They would have to do it quietly and secretly. In any case, she doubted they would find a remedy at Hogwarts. The counter-spell would most likely be something homemade and illegal.

"I gather it's not to be a happy reunion for the two of you then? No father-son picnics by the old duck pond*?"

She couldn't care less if Draco was having troubles at home. But the subject of his father was an extremely raw one. Hermione felt she owed him a snide comment or two.

He looked instantly angry. He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, jabbing a threatening finger into her personal space. "You shut your hole, Granger, or I'll tell you, in fine detail, what that prim and proper little mouth of yours is capable of when it isn't spouting rubbish."

It routinely amazed her how he could revert from cool and callous to scary in the space of a heartbeat. Hermione quietly seethed. _Nobody_ spoke to her like that. Not even the other Slytherins dared to openly insult the Head Girl. But then, they were not at Hogwarts, and she was not within shouting distance of her friends. And despite how atrociously Malfoy was treating her, Hermione couldn't help but suspect that his black mood was due to the fact that he had more to fear from his father than she did.

So she kept her tongue in check.

The carriage lumbered on, until the slate coloured stone of Malfoy Manor finally appeared over an outcropping of trees. Hermione released the breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding in, although forcing her hands to let go of the edge of the carriage seat proved to be more of a challenge.

She had seen pictures of the house, of course. Everyone had. When the Death Eater inquisitions had begun, the papers had gleefully run a three-page spread on each of the alleged Death Eater residences every week.

Malfoy Manor had been particularly interesting, given that it was the second-oldest wizarding Hall in Britain. The mansion had also housed the most comprehensive collection of Dark Arts artifacts in Europe. All of which had been taken and catalogued. The more suspect items had been destroyed, while the worst items were stored in a Ministry vault due to the fact that nobody was certain about how to go about obliterating them. Hogwart's senior Defence Against the Dark Arts classes now involved an excursion to said vault, where students were taken on a tour of the confiscated Dark Magic items from various wizarding homes. It was a useful exercise, in that it showed them exactly the sort of twisted minds they were up against.

Seeing the Manor close up, Hermione noted that Lucius's house arrest had taken a dramatic toll. Without the use of magic in the upkeep of such a massive estate, the elements had run rampant. Creeping vines that had once been decorative were now in danger of suffocating the outer walls in a thick, green, smother of ivy. Dead, rotting leaves littered the front grounds. The previously luxuriously thick lawns were yellow and dead in places, and had grown tall enough to cover a small child.

The Manor was moody, gothic and ominous, but Hermione thought it beautiful. It reminded her of the old plantation estates in New Orleans, the kind she had seen on her last summer holiday with her parents. Draco's ancestral home was about twenty years away from qualifying as truly decrepit, but even then, Hermione was certain it would still have its allure. It wasn't hard to picture Lucius, Narcissa or Draco living there. Surely no wizard or witch too plain or unassuming could dwell in such a place.

With a panic-induced, mental giggle, Hermione imagined the doors admitting her, and then promptly spitting her curly, dark haired, non-pureblooded person out onto the gravel.

The combination of interest, fright and sweaty-palmed anticipation was a natural lubricant for her tongue, and forgetting Malfoy's decree that she remain silent, Hermione turned to speak to him.

He was frowning slightly. His hands, which had previously been folded in his lap, were now fidgeting with the brass buttons of his summer cloak. He looked worried, worried enough Hermione's only too eager imagination into overdrive. Her heart rate quickened.

Silver eyes met brown, and a brief look of silent, mutual fate was shared. She suddenly has nothing to say.

It was a pity that he was such an unapologetic wanker, Hermione thought, as the carriage came to a jarring, dusty halt in front of the Manor entrance.

Or she just might have held his hand.

Chapter End Notes:


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

Send him Bobotuber pus-spitting Howlers. Lower him into a pit with rabid, blast-ended Skrewts. Set him against a Romanian Ridgeback with a cranky disposition and penchant for barbequed Purebloods. Hell, make him Neville Longbottom's personal slave for two God-awful weeks.

Just don't send him home.

_Bit late for a change of heart, innit?_

Yes, Draco silently agreed with his Inner Goader, much too late. Particularly since he and Granger were currently waiting in a moody silence, on the front doorstep of Malfoy Manor.

Draco rocked on the balls of his feet, his clammy hands shoved in his pockets. For a brief moment, he had entertained the fantasy of chiming the doorbell, leaving Granger standing on the doorstep, and making a mad dash for the carriage that was lumbering back towards the main gates of the property.

As if reading his mind, he felt Granger slowly turn her curly head to stare at him beadily, before inching almost imperceptively closer.

If she was scared, she was doing a bloody good job of hiding it. Apart from the telltale wringing of her hands, which he knew she tended to do when nervous anyway, she looked outwardly calm.

Their journey to Diagon Alley had been uneventful. She seemed to be handling things better than he would have guessed. Draco expected tears and blubbering, which was why he had deliberately kept his distance from her (and her seemingly endless supply of incessant, prattling questions).

And Merlin, did she have questions.

At one point he had been sorely tempted to gag her with her own peach coloured satin and lace underwear. He had unearthed the underwear from beneath a pillow in the hotel room and had neglected to mention the fact, preferring to watch as she spent an amusing thirty minutes ransacking the hotel room. He might have handed the panties over if she had only admitted that they were missing.

It had been close to lunchtime by the time they Apparated to Diagon Alley. While his own absence at breakfast at school that morning would have caused only a few raised eyebrows among Slytherin House, Granger's prolonged disappearance would have likely sparked mild panic. And so it had been Draco's suggestion for her to write to the two slack jawed mollusc-brains she called friends, in addition to writing a brief letter to McGonagall.

The Hogwarts Deputy Headmistress would no doubt have a conniption at the slightest hint that her precious Head Girl had fallen into trouble.

And Draco supposed his bed probably did qualify as 'trouble'.

Once they arrived at the post office, he had felt charitable enough to extend the hand of Companiable Silence by giving Granger a few sickles to pay for the delivery of her letters. The ungrateful, puffy-haired know-it-all had responded to his kindness by giving him a look that ought to have curled the hair on his head. With a disdainful sniff, she had tossed the money in his face and stormed inside the post office, narrowly missing his smile of amusement.

The girl had the balls of a Gryffindor, he'd give her that. He had watched her from outside the post office, lest she try something monumentally stupid, like erupting into a crying fit in front of the laidback, weekend crowd. For him, she had scowls, frowns and death stares. For the jolly, portly, balding Postmaster who served her behind the counter, Granger was all smiles and polite banter.

At least she was possessed of a range of emotions, Draco decided. As opposed to Ron Weasley, for example, who took 'good nature' to new and annoying levels.

Draco watched as she bit on the tip of her pink tongue for a moment, pondering on what to write. It was muggy inside the building, and Granger had pulled the hood of her cloak from her head. The lightweight cotton caught and dislodged the jewelled barrettes from her hair, causing it to tumble past her shoulders. She absently gathered the curly mass over one shoulder as she wrote, wrapping a curl around a nail-bitten finger.

For a girl who didn't seem to give two Knuts about what she wore, Draco conceded that Granger was surprisingly feminine. It was easy not to notice her light-footed gait or the subtle sway of her meagre hips when she was consistently rushing about the castle, obscured behind an armload of books or behind her standard-issue Head Girl clipboard.

Really, she ought to have worn better clothes. The rags she took to wearing while off-duty were no better than sack-cloth with armholes cut into them- rough, drab, shapeless and uninspiring. Draco knew about clothes. Along with a secret penchant for herbal shampoos (his indulgence of the month was 'rosemary and hawafena'), it was a trait he had inherited from his mother. Idly, he eyes assessed and then dressed Granger in rich, russet coloured velvet robes. Low-cut, to show off the smooth skin between her small breasts.

Better yet, he thought, as he blinked and visually stripped her down to her high-heeled shoes and the silver chain she wore around her left ankle. The girl looked a hell of a lot better sans clothing altogether. In fact, the more clothing Granger wore, the more annoying he found her.

Or perhaps it was a case of the less clothing she wore, the more distracted he got.

Yes. That was probably it.

He wondered if their evening together had shaken her maidenly sensibilities a little. It would have been a shame for such an obviously passionate girl to revert back to her old, frigid ways.

Granger didn't need a crystal ball to see into her future. All she had to do was to observe her Head of House. Minerva McGonagall was an exceptional teacher and a formidable Deputy Headmistress, but she also possessed the sexual allure of a Flobberworm. This was most unfortunate, seeing that witches generally lived longer than wizards and reached their sexual prime comparatively later in life.

If Granger bothered looking beyond the next prefects' roster, she might have noticed that there were far more pleasant diversions to be had at Hogwarts besides marching up and down corridors like a prettier and better smelling version of Argus Filch.

Or perhaps she had noticed what she was missing out on. That might have explained her sudden interest in his 'services' on the evening of their Graduation Ball.

Intriguing thought, that. Perhaps the golden girl of Gryffindor girl was corruptible after all. Perhaps, with a bit of a nudge, he would be able to-

"Um, Malfoy," Granger chose then to whisper, interrupting Draco's musings.

He stood a little straighter on the Manor doorstep, and looked down his nose at her. "I don't think anyone's coming to answer the door." She reached out to pull on the silver-braided door chime for a second time, when he stopped her by holding up his hand.

Presently, there was a soft, scrambling at the latch on the other side of the carved oak doors, which swung open to reveal a gnarled, old house elf, dressed in a pink patchwork tea cosy.

The creature gasped, took one moist-eyed look at Draco, and promptly flung itself at him. "Master Draco is home! Oh! Toolip is so happy!"

With a bit of a grimace, Draco (and attached house elf) stepped forward.

"Good to see you again, Toolip," Draco said, not unkindly. He patted the creature on her kelp-coloured head, as his eyes quickly scanned the empty foyer.

It was cool, dark and dusty inside the manor, exactly the way Draco remembered it. Sunlight made a valiant effort at pushing through the grime-covered windows. A few muted beams of light fell onto the black marble floor, minute spotlights showcasing the movement of dust through the air. There was no furniture, but there were plenty of empty, wooden crates lined alongside the curving staircase.

"And Master Draco is bringing a young Miss!" Toolip the house elf turned to greet Granger, who seemed to be wholly occupied gawking at the cavernous foyer. The elf dropped into a perfect, low curtsy, arthritic old joints seemingly forgotten. "Welcome to Manor Malfoy, Miss."

Granger blinked down at the beaming creature.

Draco rolled his eyes. The sooner she closed her gaping mouth and shoved her eyeballs back into their sockets, the sooner they could confer with Lucius.

"The house won't bite," said Draco, removing his cloak and handing it to Toolip.

Hermione recovered long enough to scowl at him.

"Though it might spit you out," he added, with a humourless snort.

At this, she gave him a startled look, but managed to step past the threshold and into the cool marble of the foyer.

"Where is my father?" Draco asked Toolip. The house elf was currently staring at Draco's wrinkled robes with intense disapproval.

"Master Lucius is in the study," Toolip informed, her squeaky voice becoming instantly squeakier. "Is you wishing to see him now?"

"Yes, don't want to prolong the inevitable, do we?" Draco shot Hermione a sardonic smile and extended an arm to her, which she predictably ignored.

With Toolip leading the way, Draco walked ahead, and noted that for once that Hermione seemed to have no objections at trailing behind.

**

They simply didn't make pureblood wizards like Lucius anymore.

It wasn't so much to do with a diluting of the stock, rather than a gradual abandonment of the old ways; when whipping had been a customary disciplinary practice in the home, when offspring were made to commit to memory the lengthy codes of family conduct, specifying anything from how to sit a horse, to how best to placate a disgruntled mistress.

There was an innate elegance to the elder Malfoy that Draco knew he hadn't quite acquired as yet. Lucius was a lot like Snape, in that respect. Whatever could be said about their Potions Professor, the man moved like ink in water.

Lucius was similar, only more vital and more potent. And there was also the fact that while Snape's motives were sometimes ambiguous, the world now knew Lucius Malfoy to be scum of the worst sort. Despite the fact that a wizard with a confiscated wand was about as well regarded as a Knockturn Alley prostitute, Lucius was still not a man to be trifled with.

Enter one Hermione Granger, whose marrying into the Malfoy name likely qualified as trifling of the highest order, particularly if she ever considered holding out on an annulment in exchange for a hefty financial incentive. Though Draco thought he knew her well enough to rule that possibility out.

Granger wasn't interested in money. She was strange like that.

For the past three years, it was Draco who set aside the Galleons required for food and other necessities at Malfoy Manor. Lucius might have been penniless, but his son was far from it. Draco received a generous monthly stipend taken from the massive inheritance his grandfather, Julius, had left him. In addition, his mother sent him the odd lump sum payment in lieu of her carrying out any actual mothering.

Money was thus never a problem. However, with the ban on magic placed over the estate, and the eventual (and understandable) desertion of staff who were unwilling to endure labouring without their wands, there had been only so much Draco could do to maintain his home.

Even with the aid of an extremely loyal and extremely elderly house elf, manually working three hundred hectares of land was impossible.

Draco didn't think his father blamed him for their situation. Resentment, however, was something else. Lucius was not a senseless madman, but desperation, disconsolation and very expensive brandy had brought out the worst in him over the past three years.

There had been a small sliver of worry that Lucius would use the news of the marriage as an excuse to finally snap. If he did, he wouldn't have been the only exiled wizard to take that route. Just the month before, Cadmus Avery had gone on something of a homicidal rampage through his own estate, decapitating three house elves with an antique samurai sword before being blasted to oblivion by the Aurors that had swooped down on old Avery's home.

Likewise, there were alarms over Malfoy Manor; charms and wards laid into the very foundations of the stone and brick. The smallest hint of dark magic would send Aurors Apparating in droves. Fat lot of good that would do if his father decided to pick up the heavy, onyx paperweight he kept on his desk and bludgeon Granger to death with it. But that was highly improbable. Grisly murder was not his father's style. Likely, the thought of soiling his prized Aubusson carpet with Granger's blood would turn Lucius off to that idea.

Draco stood on said carpet now, having just informed his father that he had recently gotten himself tattooed and married to the Muggle-born, Gryffindor witch standing beside him. If all hell was going to break loose, likely it was going to happen within the next few minutes.

At first glance, his father appeared to be taking the news of their drunken folly a great deal better than expected. Although with Lucius, first glances were often deceiving.

"How?" Lucius asked, managing to convey disgust, horror, and stone-cold fury in one, clipped syllable.

The older wizard stood in the middle of his study, still attired in a blood red, raw silk dressing gown, despite it being three in the afternoon. There was an empty, crystal decanter and a tumbler half filled with cognac sitting on his desk. His hair hung long and unbound, and a vein was steadily throbbing at his left temple. Not a good start to things, Draco surmised, but there was little to be done about that now.

To Granger's credit, she didn't so much as squirm when Draco's obliged his sire by relaying his memory of events in a clear, monotone voice. She was probably clamouring to speak her mind, but had managed to grasp the unspoken plan that it was best for Lucius to be informed as quietly and as succinctly as possible.

Draco began with their escape from the graduation party, to their trip to the Serpent and Stone, skimmed over the events of the tattoo parlour and ensuing marriage ceremony, to their waking at the seedy, Muggle hotel in London.

Not surprisingly, his father didn't once glance at her, not from the moment Toolip had led them into the study, to when Draco eventually came to the description of their tattoos. She might have been invisible, for all the attention Lucius was paying her.

There was a terrible, lengthy silence once Draco was finished.

The only noise came from the dead leaves that were dragged across the courtyard outside by the wind, and from Toolip's worried muttering. Lucius remained unspeaking. With a slowness that was maddeningly at odds with the visceral tension in the room, he slowly smoothed back a strand of his long, silver hair, and took a sip of his brandy.

"The spell, if I am not mistaken is called Fida Mia," Lucius explained, so very quietly that Draco might not have heard him if everyone in the room hadn't been holding their breath.

Trust Granger to choose that precise moment to be overcome by a fit of the 'but isn'ts' "But isn't Fida Mia outlawed in Britain?" said the Brain of Hogwarts, "precisely because the spell can't be reversed? I mean, it originated as a tracking spell that feudal wizards used to cast on their indentured servants by means of a brand or marking so that they couldn't run away."

Draco was already walking to the bookcase that lined the walls opposite the fireplace. "Oh, there's a counter spell, you can be sure," he said. "In fact I'm certain there's a volume here on old-"

Lucius moved like lightning on ice. Hermione didn't even have the time to cry out in surprise when Draco was violently wrenched backwards by his father, and thrown with such force that he hurtled into a small sandwich table laden with fine china and an untouched lunch.

Toolip cried out and covered her face in her hands, her muttering increasing in pitch and speed. Out of instinct, Hermione had reached out in an ineffectual attempt to catch Draco, or at the very least, divert his fall. But she was not quick enough, and he careened into the finely wrought table, causing fine porcelein to smash and silverware to skitter across the floor.

Hermione's look of horror as she bent down to assist Draco was a perfect counterpart to Lucius' cool dismissal of the assault.

"Don't." Draco hissed, flinching away from her. At a loss for words, Hermione let her hands fall loosely to her sides before turning to give Lucius a look of loathing.

"Are there no limits to what I must endure?" Lucius seethed to his son.

"Endurance is strength is it not, father?" Draco returned. He rose to his feet unaided, pressing his fingers against the thin cut at his cheekbone he had contacted with broken porcelein. "I believe you were the one to tell me that."

The animosity in the room was almost tangible. Hate hung in the air like stale wood smoke.

Lucius put an end to it all. "Toolip, you will escort my son to his chambers. I wish to speak with Miss Granger alone."

"No," said Draco.

"Fine," Hermione agreed, at the same time.

Draco spun on his heel to scowl at her. Hermione had gone so pale that the few freckles over her nose stood out in marked contrast. He then gave Lucius a look that she couldn't even begin to decipher, before walking briskly from study with Toolip, and slamming the doors shut behind him.

**

Lucius was seated at his desk, writing briskly on thick cream parchment that probably cost more than anything Hermione had ever used.

"You will have fifteen minutes of my time this afternoon, Miss Granger, after which you will be placed in a guest bedroom for the remainder of this day. Before your return to Hogwarts tomorrow, I shall provide you with a solution to our little…problem. It will be up to you and my son to see that you execute said solution with due diligence."

He paused in his writing to look at her, taking note of her fierce glare and shaking hands.

"I take it you don't approve of my discipline?" He spoke in a casual, conversational manner. There was a very slight slur to his words. For some reason, it worked to ease her disgust of him somewhat. The man was drunk.

That did not excuse what he did, but she hoped to God he was a better father when he wasn't pissed.

"You violate your position as a parent. In doing so, you demean yourself, your son and the name of your family. But then, that latter part is rather moot now isn't it?"

"I have precious little too lose, Miss Granger."

It was uncanny how much he looked like Draco. But he was prettier than Draco, if indeed such a thing was possible. Lucius was like a Goya painting, Hermione decided, oftentimes disturbing in content, but exquisite in its rendering. It was a sharp, jarring kind of beauty. Draco's features, meanwhile, were decidedly more masculine.

He may have inherited his father's piercing colouring, but he also had the characteristic Black bone structure. Long, lean lines, lightly curving lips, and the same broad shouldered physique that had favoured Sirius.

Part of Hermione wanted to run from the house as fast as her wobbly legs would allow. Another, less intelligent part of her wanted to sit and simply stare at Lucius, much like one observed a fierce, jungle cat at the Zoo. Only in this instance, the one thing separating her from the predator was a cherry wood desk.

Oh God. She felt nauseous again.

"My mistakes are my own," Hermione told him in a steady voice. "Even if I did tell my parents, they wouldn't so much as lay a finger on me."

"My son is no foundling, Miss Granger. I don't make it my business to know about his dalliances. But when he takes it upon himself to _marry_ a conquest, well then." Lucius stared at her, hard. "It becomes my duty to show my parental displeasure. But let's come to the point, shall we. You're obviously an intelligent young woman, so the question begs to be asked." He folded his arms. "How much?"

"For Draco?" Hermione asked, incredulous and insulted. "You can have him for a Chocolate Frog, or failing that, what about that illegal, priceless text of Egyptian curses you're rumoured to have hidden somewhere?" she suggested, in a falsely cheerful voice. "Oh wait, I just remembered. You've had all your things taken by the Ministry, haven't you? I might just have to settle for the frog."

Well. She had certainly pulled _that_ out of her arse. If Ron were present, he'd have hooted and slapped his thigh. It was galling to think that Lucius assumed her to be a loose-knickered gold digger.

Though it happened that the truth was worse. When it came to Draco, it appeared that she was just loose-knickered, period.

A muscle in Lucius's otherwise expressionless face twitched. If glares were Unforgivables, Hermione was certain she'd be writhing on the ground in the throes of a painful death, pre Avada Kedavra, death.

"Don't try my patience, girl," Lucius sneered, learning forward in his seat. He bared his upper teeth at her in a feral manner. "I would remind you that no one else knows you are here."

That wasn't very bright of him. Hermione was disappointed. She had expected more. "I don't want your money. I want out of this marriage. The sooner you provide us with assistance, the sooner I can leave."

Lucius was silent for a moment, studying her. He drummed his long fingers on his desk. "Very well. I will provide the name of a useful contact. He will locate an expert, in a manner of speaking, a person who should be able to undo Fida Mia. Given that I am unable to leave these premises, it will be left to you and my son to see to it that his marriage is annulled post haste."

**

It didn't take a great intellect to predict that Draco would be waiting for her outside the study by the time Lucius had ironed out various details with her.

After being dismissed by Lucius, Hermione exited the room and shut the doors firmly behind her, leaning heavily against the smooth mahogany. She had barely managed to get her heart beating at a somewhat normal rate when Draco took hold of her arm and dragged her further along the corridor.

He had had an extremely quick shower and change, from the look of him. His hair was dripping onto the collar of his white, long sleeved cotton shirt. He was wearing jeans and a very troubled expression.

Amazingly, despite having attended boarding school with him for seven years, Hermione couldn't recall ever seeing Draco in anything other than his school uniform, Quidditch gear or function robes. It was slightly discombobulating to realise that Draco Malfoy owned and wore jeans, like any other normal teenager.

"What did he say to you?" Draco demanded.

The scent of rosemary wafted down from his wet hair. It was his shampoo. Hermione noticed that the last two buttons on his shirt were fastened wrongly.

"Well?" he snapped, when she didn't immediately tell him.

Hermione sighed, massaging her temples in an effort to stave off the headache she could feel was coming. She wanted nothing more than to brood over a steaming mug of tea, preferably in her own room at Hogwarts. Some of her more brilliant schemes through the years had been hatched over the steam of a large mug of overly steeped, black, sweetened tea.

In the absence of the familiar comforts, she settled for the next best thing, irking an already irked Draco Malfoy.

"Your father offered me a frog and a curse manual in exchange for you. I rather think I got the better end of the deal."

Oh, she was definitely spending too much time with him. His sharp tongue was starting to rub off on her.

He looked slightly stupefied for the briefest of moments, and then surprised her by grabbing onto her shoulders and pushing her up against the portrait lined wall of the corridor.

"Oi there," grumbled a sleepy, ruff-wearing wizard in a nearby painting. "No need for that."

Hermione blinked in pain as the back of her head came into contact with a gilt-edged picture frame. At the same time, a curious tingling sensation assailed the skin of her hip and upper thigh, travelling down her leg and running into the nerves at the soles of her feet. Either her leg was about to go numb, or the silver dragon at her hip had suddenly decided to come alive.

The latter was much too scary to think about without a library at her disposal.

"Can't you have a conversation without putting me into some kind of wrestling lock?" she spat out at him, digging her fingernails into his forearm.

Draco took hold of her chin to force her eyes up to meet his. This was the closest he had gotten to her since their tussle at the hotel room that morning. Quite suddenly, Hermione found herself looking directly into eyes that were as clear as a mountain spring, for all that they were spitting venom at her.

"Listen, you stupid slag," he began, obviously not liking her flippant attitude, "in two weeks, I receive enough of my inheritance from my grandfather to never have to come back to this place. I'll admit that you're not entirely to blame for this disaster but if you get in the way of what I'm due, you'll be sorry."

Now this was news. Hermione stared at him, her mind turning over and picking at this new information. "My God, you really do hate Lucius as much as anyone else."

His brows snapped together, and for a second, he looked flustered. "You don't know what it is to hate, Granger. True hate makes your blood boil. It makes you see AK green."

"I hate you," she said, and was startled to realise that she meant it at that time. Draco cocked his head to the side and gave her a long, measuring look. "No," he decided, shaking his head in a contemplative manner. "Not really." And then he smiled, a slow Cheshire cat grin that was all even, white teeth and dubious agendas.

It was the smile he had given her when she had accepted his invitation to leave the graduation party. As such, Hermione was instantly suspicious.

It was like being caught in an icy breeze, brisk and startling, but not altogether unpleasant. Especially if one was partial to cold weather.

But then an odd thing happened. His gaze began to gradually thaw, until it nearly matched the great heat of his body that was seeping through the thin material of his shirt. The warmth in his eyes was something very new, something Hermione hadn't experienced from him before.

Transfixed and tremendously curious, she brought her hand up to touch the thin red welt over his cheekbone. She frowned as she ran her thumb across the small, clean cut before looking up at him, not knowing why her eyes were so keen to offer an apology for his injury.

His lashes lowered slightly, and it seemed that he was inhaling deeper than he was exhaling. He moved his hand up from her chin to run his knuckles over her own cheek. It didn't seem possible that he could move any closer to her, but he managed it.

It was summer, and it was hot, granted, but all of a sudden the heat between their bodies became nearly overwhelming. The top half of his shirt was wet from his hair, and was fairly plastered to his body. The material was rendered nearly transparent, revealing the curve of his collarbones, and the lightly muscled, contours of his chest.

Hermione's heart pounded like a war drum as she watched his injured lips slowly part, only inches away from her.

Clearly, whatever was about to happen was going to be something the both of them were likely to regret later. Not to mention the fact that they were currently in the immediate vicinity of a very angry, potentially unstable, Lucius Malfoy. A small movement of her head, a slight shove against his chest or a sharp rebuke might have stalled the descent of his mouth.

"Master Draco," the small, tremulous voice of Toolip interrupted. The elf was standing not two feet away from them. "I is supposed to be taking the Miss to her room now."

Draco stiffened against her. For a moment, Hermione didn't think he would release her. But then he nodded. The small movement clearly marked the end of their strange interlude.

"I guarantee that you'll hate me after we're through," he promised her, in a whisper. Feeling rooted to the ground, Hermione watched as he stepped away from her, taking his bipolar stare, his warm body, and the kiss that was destined not to be.

"You're an evil bastard," she told him, with a defiant jut of her chin.

"There are many kinds of evil bastard, Granger. My dear father happens to be the worst sort. So mind your tongue until we're back at school." He shook his finger at her, as if she were a wayward child. "I won't tell you again."

Hermione was left her slumped against the wall of the corridor, which was where she remained until Draco knocked on the door of his father's study and disappeared inside.

Oh, Draco Malfoy certainly qualified as an Evil Bastard, but he left Hermione wondering exactly what category he fell into.

**

The remainder of the day saw Toolip escorting Hermione to a guest bedroom located in the eastern wing of the house, where she would remain until her eventual departure for Hogwarts the next morning. The old elf had rattled off directions and other bits of navigational and historical information as Hermione trudged along, too deep in thought to pay real attention.

The guest bedroom was surprisingly sparse, but still ostentatious, by Hermione's modest standards. Her eyes passed wearily over the teak furniture and the meters of velvet, satin, brocade, and silk that adorned the chambers.

It was a Guest Bedroom For Girls, Hermione surmised, judging by the liberal usage of pinks and cream. The male rooms were probably done in masculine shades of brown, burgundy and earth, with mounted Hippogriff heads on the walls and iron shackles in the wardrobe in case anyone wanted to indulge in a spot of Death Eater revelry and torture…

"Is there anything else you is needing, Miss?" Toolip inquired, jarring Hermione from her morose thoughts.

She shook her head, sitting down on the edge of the mattress. It was then that she saw the pewter mug of steaming potion that was resting on the side table.

"What is that?" Hermione asked, walking over to inspect the brew.

Toolip was busy removing two enormous frilled pillows from a large sandalwood trunk at the foot of the bed.

"You must be drinking that before you is having dinner this evening," the elf instructed.

"Yes, but what is it?"

"It is for the After, Miss," said Toolip.

Hermione frowned, peering over the mug and sniffing at the steam suspiciously. Lucius would have to think her an imbecile to accept any potion brewed in his home. "The after?" she asked Toolip. "I don't understand."

"You is having at it with my Master Draco, is you not?" Toolip asked, in an extremely gentle manner that caused understanding to wash over Hermione like a chill.

The old elf walked over to pat her on the arm. "Best to be taking it today. If you miss a day, the one you is taking tomorrow is tasting worse." Toolip wrinkled her crooked nose.

Hermione dubiously stared down at the potion, which seemed to bubble and pop at her in cheerful greeting.

Toolip tut-tutted. "Is nothing wrong with the potion. I is making it myself. See?" the elf bustled forth and took a sip from the mug. "Is tasting a little of ash, of course, but Cook is adding honey for you."

Floo ash, lotus root, mallowbark and senna flower, with honey for taste. Otherwise known as the standard, 'old school', Contraception Potion that all fifth years learned how to make. Most wizards and witches used spells these days, but Hermione was next to certain that neither she nor Draco had remembered to cast Contraceptus.

She groaned. What the hell was wrong with her? To not even consider contraception? Gods, she was never, ever drinking again. Alcohol was evil. It warped the mind and obliterated morals. Given how far she was into her monthly cycle, it would have been highly unlikely for her to conceive by Draco, but the potion was added peace of mind. Especially for Lucius. And judging by the horrid scene in the study earlier, Lucius's piece of mind was also Draco's safety.

Hermione quietly thanked Toolip and picked up the drink.

"Have you been working here long, then?" she asked, feeling slightly uncomfortable as the elf continued to fuss over her in a motherly fashion. No doubt Lucius had also given instructions to make certain that Hermione drank every last foul tasting drop.

"Oh yes," Toolip nodded. "I is working here long before I is being Master Draco's nanny."

Hermione choked on her second sip. "His nanny? I mean, you're _still_ his nanny?"

Toolip shrugged, but there was a humorous twinkle in her cloudy eyes. "He is not wanting a nanny anymore, of course, but I is usually having my way."

"No doubt," Hermione gave the elf a watery smile.

Once Toolip had collected the empty mug and left, Hermione alternated between sitting on the edge of the bed and pacing. The silent tears didn't start for another forty minutes.

After three hours however, she finally gave in to the lure of the plush, silk duvet, pushing aside the nagging voice in the back of her head that berated her for accepting any comforts offered by Lucius Malfoy.

Sleep might have allowed her a brief reprieve from the stresses of real life, but Hermione was still painfully aware that the next two weeks were going to be very long indeed.

Particularly if she told the boys.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Severus Snape was a chronic insomniac. On the odd occasion when he did manage to still the incessant whirring of his mind, his slumber was brief, fitful and plagued with the type of dreams that would have had normal people catatonic and incoherent for hours.

Restful sleep was something he craved. It seemed ironic that as a Potions Master, was unable or rather unwilling to brew a potion that would have allowed him a few hours of blessed reprieve.

Oh, there were potions of course; dark, simmering, sinister draughts that would have robbed him of all conscious thought for as long as he wanted. But he never brewed them, never for himself. It all came down to his inner sadist, he reasoned.

There were probably only a few people on the planet truly deserving of that kind of sleep, and he was quite certain he was not one of them. Despite the futility of it, Snape had retired early to his bed that evening, ignoring the teetering stack of chicken scratchings his students attempted to pass off as homework.

Age was catching up with him and lately he found that he could no longer slash away with his quill into the early hours of the morning, without the inevitable fatigue setting in.

The cold of the dungeons seeped into his bones more easily these days. And the dungeons were cold, no mistake. It was as if all the good humour, warm thoughts, sweet, fluffy good-naturedness in the castle was like hot air, rising to coddle and smother the inhabitants of the upper levels in a calming slumber. He'd give an arm and a leg to sleep like a first-year Hufflepuff.

The soft swoosh from the fireplace beyond his bedchamber caused Snape to sit up in bed. With a furrowed brow, he pushed aside the thick bedcovers and reached for his wand from his bedside table to cast Lumos. It was past midnight, but from the sounds of it, he was about to receive a Floo transmission.

By the time Snape ventured out into his study, the late night caller was waiting, suspended in the cool green flames of the fireplace.

Lucius Malfoy's mercurial eyes swept the length of Snape's person, from his velvet slippers to his dressing gown, to the slightly mussed look of his lank hair.

"You don't usually turn in this early," said Lucius, by way of greeting.

Snape's lips thinned as the bitter tang of dread coated his tongue. So. It was going to be one _those_ nights.

"In addition to overseeing the tedious, swill-fest that is my junior potions class, I was required to substitute for Lupin this afternoon," Snape replied. He decided to give in to weakness and fortify himself with a cup of strong, black coffee. Sleep that evening was fast becoming a hopeless endeavour.

"Ah," Lucius smiled, his head turning to the side, ostensibly to look out a nearby window. "I wasn't aware that the prodigal werewolf had returned. Is it a full moon tonight?" Lucius asked, in a conversational manner. "I hadn't noticed."

Snape busied himself in the small portion of his kitchen that hadn't been completely taken over by his ever-expanding laboratory. He liked his coffee strong enough to burn a whole through the stone and he preferred to brew it sans magic.

"Last night was a full moon. He's recovering today."

"You look like hell Severus."

"Thank you, Lucius." Snape massaged his jaw. He had a habit of grinding his teeth whenever he tried to force sleep to come. "I see your imprisonment has done nothing to improve your manners."

Lucius quirked a white-blond eyebrow. If one were to squint, one could almost be forgiven into mistaking Lucius for his son. Snape had certainly seen the same gesture on Draco's face on many occasions. The resemblance, as always, was eerie. "Should it?"

"No. I don't suppose it should," Snape sighed. "Idle banter was never one of your strong points, Lucius. I'm assuming you interrupted my rest for something important. Your Floo allowance for the week extends to an hour, I suggest you be quick about it and tell me what it is you want."

There had been a time when such a scathing remark would have earned Snape a sneer from Lucius that might have withered the petals off a daisy. But those days were past. Past but not forgotten, apparently, judging from the ill concealed hatred sparking in Lucius' eyes.

Lucius Malfoy, in his present form, was an angry hurricane contained within an airtight, iron box. The wizard that had once inspired such fear and awe was slowly, surely diminishing. Fate and consequence had seen him stripped of his wand, and his will. And without both, Lucius had been reduced to merely a name.

Snape might have found Lucius's fate amusing, deserved even, but their histories were too closely entwined for him to assume a position of moral superiority.

Particularly if some histories left permanent marks.

Lucius' handsome head had rose slightly, and he seemed to struggle with whatever it was he was about to say next. Snape was immediately intrigued. The elder Malfoy was rarely unsure, even when he was obviously wrong. It was part of what made him such a potent personality. Not everyone was capable of such steadfast, albeit misplaced conviction.

And only Lucius could make glaring wrongness look so good.

"Draco," said Lucius, simply.

"I see," Snape intoned, his voice deceivingly languorous. "I'm afraid you're going to have to be more specific."

Lucius responded by raising his hand and touched one long finger to his ear. The message was clear. This was a conversation meant for Snape's ears only. The request ought to have been impossible to grant, considering that Lucius's Floo communications were monitored. Regardless, there were ways to guarantee privacy. It would require a report to Dumbledore in the morning, but that was one of the perks of being a double agent- the professional liberties.

Snape brought his wand forth and cast the required incantation.

"Did he tell you he came to see me over the weekend?" Lucius continued, sounding more purposeful now.

Snape nodded, looking resigned. "Your son only informed me of his trip home upon his return. The brat's absence had caused some concern among several of his housemates, who had come banging down my door, convinced that your son had gotten drunk during his graduation celebrations and fallen into a yet undiscovered castle bolthole."

"I forget how tall he is now."

Lucius actually sounded wistful, which was also not something one witnessed very regularly. Snape knew Lucius well enough to know what the ever-so-slight slur in his voice meant. Definitely an evening for the Pensieve, Snape mused. He pinched his brow.

"I'd appreciate it if you said what you have to say and be done with it. I'm not in the habit of conversing with convicted, inebriated Death Eaters at ungodly hours of the day. Not good for the reputation, you realise."

Lucius eyes sparked cold fire. "You're a bastard."

Faced with Lucius' intense displeasure, Snape was ashamed to feel a sharp stab of pleasurable recognition. His expression remained cool, however. "Takes one to know one."

"We have a situation which might require your assistance," Lucius curtly informed, sounding annoyed now. "Draco is in trouble."

Snape snorted. "When is the bothersome fruit of your loins not in trouble?" He took a sip from his cup as he sank into a cracked leather armchair. The chair had once belonged to Dumbledore and was about eighty years past its prime.

Lucius narrowed his eyes. "The kind of trouble only Emmanuel Borgin can assist with, you great, overbearing git."

This garnered Snape's complete and deadly attention. He set his mug down sharply and stood up. The look on his face would have had his first year students cowering behind their cauldrons.

"Lucius, what in Merlin's name have you done?"

Lucius look affronted. "It's not what _I've_ done."

"Then what has my cursed godson got himself into that he requires Borgin's questionable assistance?"

For some reason, the question prompted an amused look from Lucius. "Hermione Granger, apparently..."

Snape blinked. "Come again?"

"They're married! The pair of them undertook Fida Mia over the weekend. Draco brought the girl home to inform me of the news. Suffice to say I might have handled the situation better." Lucius sighed. He studied the worn carpet in front of Snape's fireplace.

Lucius was correct. They did have a minor catastrophe on their hands. "The little fools…" Snape seethed. "Of all the idiotic notions!"

He mentally summoned the strength not to ask what exactly Lucius had done to the boy. Snape located and then brought forth a mental image of Draco, from when the boy had come to speak to him upon his return from Malfoy Manor. Draco had looked tired, but otherwise well.

"It is a case of bad judgment which will be rectified very shortly," Lucius assured.

Snape sucked in a long breath. How little Lucius knew about the person that Draco had become, and at the same time, how desperately he loved the boy. There was only one plausible reason as to why Draco had risked the formidable wrath of his father, instead of simply coming to see his Head of House.

If Draco had set out to garner his father's complete and unwavering attention with this recent folly, he had certainly succeeded.

And he had unwittingly dragged Hermione Granger along for the ride.

_Boy, what have you done?_

"Lucius, this is more than a mere case of bad judgment. Fida Mia is irreversible! And you are willing to send them to the likes of Emmanuel Borgin to counter it?"

"Au contraire dear Sev." Lucius folded his arms, a pointed look on his elegant face. "There are ways, and then there are _ways_."

Snape's eyebrows snapped together. "Dark Magic?" He snorted. "I doubt Granger would consent to it."

Lucius remained confident. "I have spoken to the girl. She'll do what she must to correct this monumental blunder, and for a price, Borgin will assist them."

"Two things…" Snape began, pacing his study.

Lucius made a 'carry on' gesture.

"Technically, a counter spell to Fida Mia _may_ be devised, but in order for the incantation to take effect, both parties must be entirely willing to dissolve the marital bond. And given the complexity and…" Snape paused, a weary look passing over his face, "…intimacy of the original ritual, I'm assuming that neither Draco nor Miss Granger were tattooed at wand point?"

"Your meaning?" Lucius snapped, although his tone implied that he already knew.

"Draco does not dislike the girl," said Snape, ignoring Lucius' overly dramatic, choked expression. "If they are to attempt a spell reversal, it's best they do it before he accustoms himself to this fact."

Lucius looked pained. "Yes, I had noticed that. He seemed concerned that I was going to do away with her."

Snape paused in the act of reaching for his coffee cup. "Should he have been?"

"I suppose it's not for lack of trying," Lucius shrugged, sounding as if they were discussing such mundane topics as the weather, rather than previous attempts at murdering bothersome children.

"Your attempt at humour is lost on me," Snape admonished. "You of course told him that your days of doing away with innocent Muggleborns are long over."

Lucius smiled and spread his hands in a gesture of supplication. The look he gave Snape could best be described as playfully malevolent. It was vintage Lucius, and it was ridiculously charming.

"As you can see, dear Severus, I may not lack the motive, but the means are another matter. What is this other concern you have?"

It probably wasn't prudent to tell him, Snape decided, but at that point there was hardly anything to be done about it. "The Order has it on good authority that Voldemort's recruitment campaign has arrived at Hogwarts again," Snape revealed.

The dark revelation was followed by period of long silence. Lucius' expression was inscrutable, as was Snape's. Both men were deep in thought, however, and both were acutely aware of this fact. Snape made a show of swilling the murky contents of his cup.

"Draco is neither a leader nor a follower," Lucius said, very carefully.

"He will not join, nor will he experience any real temptation to do so," Snape confirmed, momentarily pleased with Lucius' take on the matter. "But the recruitment will complicate current matters. Your son is a prized commodity. Certain…factions might not be terribly impressed with the boy's stupefying ambivalence to the Dark Lord's cause. There may be repercussions, particularly if his marriage to Granger comes to light."

Lucius' eyes narrowed. "Then it must not come to light."

"This matter will be a challenge for them," Snape continued. "And a timely one. If Draco is occupied on his errands with Granger, the Recruiter may bypass him altogether. Out of sight, out of mind, as they say. The boy has a natural, pervasive curiosity, which tends to land him in strife more often than not. Bearing in mind that I am trying not to swallow my tongue as I say this, but given their predisposition towards each other, it might be that Granger will act as a positive influence on Draco in the time they spend together."

"Good influence?" Lucius snorted. "The girl is brave, I'll grant her that, but she's hopelessly naïve. She has an appalling tendency to speak her mind at the most inopportune times."

The corner of Snape's mouth rose slightly. "You'd be surprised how addictive honesty can be once you've tried it."

"Ah. Now I believe it is _your_ turn to say what you mean to say."

Snape was only too happy to oblige. "When are you going to tell him about his mother?" he asked softly.

"And what would you have me tell Draco? That I refused to relinquish him to Narcissa, and that the vain woman took it upon herself to strike at me in the most asinine way possible?" Lucius seethed.

"Merlin's teeth, Lucius!" Snape countered. "His mother did not simply expire from the shame of banishment. The woman consumed enough opium to kill a Centaur. She's been dead for months. You _must_ tell him!"

Lucius's reply was whisper soft. "He does not need to know as yet."

"Draco is not a fool. Were he to trace Narcissa's so-called contributions to his Gringotts account, he'll know they came from me. "His mother is dead, Lucius. No matter how contained the incident is, the news _will_ reach him eventually. You must tell the boy or you will risk losing what little you have of him."

"And would that be so appalling?" Lucius demanded. "For him?"

Snape didn't see the need to soften his words. "No," he admitted. "He would not miss you. And Lucius, you'd be wise to thank whichever deity it is you occasionally blaspheme, that your son is so much more than you are. And so much less, at the same time."

Lucius looked away, and to Snape's amazement, swayed slightly. He looked completely spent. "He should have been ours' Sev. Yours and mine…"

Snape chuckled, but the sound of was dry and devoid of amusement. "Even if modern magic did find a way to circumvent reproductive biology, he'd be a certifiable monster. Be grateful he's inherited some of Narcissa's grace."

"Yes," Lucius agreed, his gaze thawing slightly. "You always were a great, blundering oaf."

It was an old, familiar insult between them, one not used for many years. The jibe was made all the more ludicrous given that adult Snape was twice as fluid and as precise as when he had been Draco's age.

Snape looked into Lucius' deadened gaze, beyond the haze of drink, and found that he was still able to see remnants of the young man he had followed without sense or reservation more than twenty years ago. It was sometimes unnerving to watch Draco sitting in his class, as the boy listened with rapt attention over a demonstration, or stared into space, Lucius' trademark sneer stamped across Draco's younger features.

So much like his sire, Snape thought. It was a worrying thought. But thankfully for Draco, the ambition that had driven Lucius nearly to the brink of obliteration had been diluted by Narcissa's complete lack of personality.

Draco was decidedly cunning, and at times, malicious. But the boy would never allow himself to be wielded as someone else's blade. Like his mother, he was much too self-serving for that.

Not that Snape was a stranger to the allure of blind faith, to follow without question, logic or sense. At seventeen, he had suffered through the Dark Lord's initiation, buoyed by the supportive presence of his mentor, an extremely enigmatic Lucius. A few years later, he had stood amidst the crowd at Lucius's wedding, watched as Lucius had kissed Narcissa Black's cold, red lips. Had watched as those grey eyes had searched him out from the throng and bestowed upon him a brief, achingly private smile.

"I suddenly have an urge to kill something," Lucius said. At that moment, he looked every day of his forty-one years. He also looked like a worrying father.

"Which reminds me, Lucius," Snape said, adding a measure of steel back into the velvet voice "Harm your son again, in any way, and the next time you see him, it will be from behind Azkaban bars. Do not mistake my assistance for friendship."

Lucius' smile was slightly scary. "Ah Severus, I wouldn't do that. Not again."

Snape didn't need to locate his pocket watch to know that the Floo communication was up. The green flames were now more smoke than fire.

Lucius noticed it as well. "I trust you will keep me informed? Demanding information from Draco is rather like trying to cast Lumos underwater…"

Snape understood this and was suddenly quite glad that he was not himself a father. Draco gave a whole new meaning to the term 'stubbornly tight-lipped'.

"My loyalties are to my godson first and foremost, but you will be kept informed."

"My thanks, Severus."

"Oh and Lucius, there is one more thing."

"Yes?"

"Call it a morbid curiosity on my part, but if you would answer a question?"

Lucius stared at him.

"What would you do if you had your freedom again?" Snape asked.

There was no hesitation or artifice in Lucius's response, which was almost as unsettling to Snape as the reply itself.

"Take my son, willing or not, and run," said the former Death Eater.

"You really would condemn him to that kind of existence?" Snape questioned. "One where he would have to forsake every person he has ever known, always running, always hiding?" The flames were gone, reduced to a faint wafting of green smoke, and the image of Lucius wavered.

"I would," Lucius said, his voice now sounding like an echo. "In a heartbeat."

The Floo transmission ended with the sound of a snuffed candle.

All that was left to mark the conversation was the sooty, coppery scent of the fire, and the fact that Snape was wide awake, alert and more shaken than he would care to admit.

He walked over to his desk and sat down. It was a fine desk, a claw-footed, rosewood and mother of pearl creation that had been in his family for three generations. It was the one of the few things in his life that he felt a sentimental attachment to.

The outside observer would have noted that the desk had four sizeable, brass handled drawers, two located at either end. But as Snape tapped his wand at the centre of the desk and murmured a brief incantation, a fifth, much smaller drawer appeared.

The hidden compartment sprang open, revealing a small bundle of green velvet. Snape stared at the bundle for a moment, and then removed it. His hands might have shook somewhat, but he was a Potions Master, and there was no place in his profession for that kind of weakness.

He gingerly unwrapped the cloth. Nestled inside the material was a bright, golden key.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

Hermione thumbed the edge of a yellowed page, frowning over the introduction to the book she had unearthed in the Archaic and Little-Used Magic Section of the Hogwarts Library. It was a substantial section, taking up nearly a third of the library's west wing. Even so, from experience, she knew that there was often a waiting list for books from the section, due surprisingly to their popularity.

_Archaic and little-used magic_, she mused. Senior students invariably picked the dodgier spells when given free rein on assignment projects. After all, a skin-stripping Bavarian Hex (originally used in preparing poultry) was far more interesting to research than something relatively everyday like Scourgify.

"Miss Granger, if you don't require further assistance, I shall be taking tea in my office," Madam Pince informed her. She had been bustling back and forth replacing the books that Hermione had previously scanned and dismissed.

It had taken their combined efforts to locate the Fida Mia journal from the shelves. According to Pince, Tallowstub's account was the only book on the subject to be published in the last three hundred years, and to Hermione's frustration, it read more like a collection of anecdotes and informal observations rather than being a rigorous piece of research.

Judging from the thick layer of dust covering the small, purple-leather bound book, it was obvious that previous students had perhaps not found the subject to be as stirring as other more macabre, historical spells.

"I should be fine, thanks," Hermione smiled up at the Librarian. A fat silverfish made a bid for escape from the spine of the old book. Hermione gently flicked it from the table and then watched, in resignation, as Madam Pince promptly squashed it under the square heel of her very sensible shoes. With a curt mm-hmph of dismissal, Pince retreated to the seclusion of her office.

Madam Pince, besides Dumbledore and possibly Remus Lupin, was the only other staff member in the castle moderately aware of the type of activities that Hermione, Ron and Harry sometimes got up to.

In fact, the Hogwarts Librarian could perhaps be said to hold the key to the evidence of the trio's prolific body of work over the years. If the often-thwarted Snape were to ever seek incriminating evidence as to the friends' dubious extra-curricular activities, he only needed to look at Hermione's borrowing records.

The list comprised a what's-what of complex potions, as well as restricted and semi-illegal spells. Ron and Harry's records, in marked contrast, remained entirely innocuous. Hermione had always been reluctant for the boys to check out restricted volumes under their own names. The discovery of 'Mending and Caring for Your Invisibility Cloak', by Cora Dodd, in Harry's borrowing records might have looked a tad suspicious to an investigating teacher.

Luckily for them, Madam Pince seemed to maintain some sort of Librarian's Code, which probably went along the lines of 'thou shall not divulge the contents of a student's borrowing records to faculty, unless explicitly required by irate Potion Masters'. She might have taken a strip of hide from a student for damaging a book, but over the years, Pince and Hermione had developed a comfortable alliance.

Perhaps there was something in the serious Librarian that enjoyed speculating about what the trio got up to after Hermione's research stints. Perhaps Pince was even living vicariously through the friends. The latter thought made Hermione smile.

Either way, Hermione was thankful for the woman's no-questions-asked policy. The request for assistance in locating the Fida Mia text had resulted in a thin, raised eyebrow and nothing more.

Hermione rolled the stiffness out of her shoulders and glanced around the library. Said text had been sitting open in front of her for nearly the entire lunch period. Just the sight of it made her palms sweaty and her stomach coil and tighten in nervousness.

Apart from a pair of third year Ravenclaws who were industriously scribbling away on parchment in a far corner, Hermione was alone. She was safely nestled inside a small, windowed alcove that she had come to call her own during her schooling at Hogwarts.

The spot was her corner of the library and a haven for the perpetually conspiring. It was hard to speculate about the number of times she had sat at the table with Ron, Harry or Ginny, whispering at each other over a great stack of books…

Turning her attention back to her task, Hermione shook off her post-graduation nostalgia like water from a wet coat, and continued reading.

_Chapter Three: Origins_

Hermione found it odd that Fida Mia had originated as a spell to demonstrate loyalty in one's vassals.

An enchantment of honour my Aunt Gerty's tea towel, thought Hermione, with a mental snort.

The spell was hardly a benign thing. Like Chinese Whispers, Fida Mia had been distorted and misshapen over time, molded and recast again and again by those who found new use for it. This was a fate common to spells, as Professor Binns would often tell them.

Even though wizards tended to be an insular, backward lot, magic undoubtedly evolved through the centuries. There was hardly an incantation used in current times that did not originate as something quite different.

Hermione made quick notes as she speed-read through Tallowstub's lengthy, slightly over-written account of the application of Fida Mia in medieval times. The pages of her well-used, dog-eared notebook filled up quickly.

She paused to read over her latest entries.

_- Two parties may undertake Fida Mia, i.e. two 'initiates'. Typically, one is dominant (liege), the other submissive (servant). _

_- Initiates are marked willingly, with a symbol or standard of the dominant party (i.e. tattoo or branding)._

_- Despite the existence of House or family insignias, markings may not be specifically chosen by either party prior to the casting, Rather, the spell 'chooses' a representation of one's partner and reproduces this mark via the medium of tattoo._

_It seemed mind-boggling that a person would willingly submit to being magically branded and literally __owned__ by another. And yet the fanciful illustrations in the book would claim this to be the case. It showed buxom maids kneeling before their benevolent looking lieges with expressions of rapture as dark, coiling marks were enchanted into the skin of their wrists, shoulders, calves and on page six hundred and seventeen, buttocks._

With a disgusted expression, Hermione turned to the following page a tad too sharply, causing one corner of the stiff paper to rip. She looked up; half expecting Madam Pince to come running from her office at the sound of such desecration, but was thankful when the Librarian did not appear.

Despite the romantic connotations (and really, one had to have suffered from a Bludger to the head to find Fida Mia romantic), the spell was quite unsavory. Not as heinous as an Unforgivable, certainly, but it smacked of Dark Magic. It was a spell forged in a time when magic had not been so easily categorised into Dark and Light.

If Hermione had to guess, she would bet that there was a dash of Imperio involved, along with a pinch of Occlumency thrown in for good measure. Good old-fashioned mind reading via a faint, psychic connection.

This ensured that 'masters' were at all times aware of the whereabouts of their servants, making escape for an initiate damn near impossible.

If one wanted to escape, that was. The bemused looking lass on page six hundred and seventeen most definitely did not look in any hurry to run off.

_- From mid-1600s, usage of Fida Mia as a means of monitoring indentured servants waned. This coincided with the popularity of House Elves as an alternative to human servants. _

_- 1762. Danish Charms expert and famed polygamist, Lars Hendricks, upon being denied official Ministry permission to marry his five lovers, developed a personalised marriage ritual. Fida Mia was selected as the base of the invented enchantment. Note of interest: Lars was later prosecuted and fined by local authorities for improper magical 'handling' of a goat. Note to self: look up any association with 'Aberforth Dumbledore'._

_- 1800. Fida Mia, the marriage spell was developed by the Hendricks family (numbering some thirty six members) and marketed as a fashionable marriage alternative to 'staid' wizarding marriage vows._

_And less than a hundred years later, the spell was declared illegal in Britain, but was still practiced in parts of Eastern Europe. _

With a furrowed brow, Hermione turned to the next chapter, making quick notes as she read.

_Chapter Four: Effects _

_- Fida Mia initiates often experiences a brief period of erotic…_

Erotic?! Hermione groaned, but was glad that she was in good enough spirits to appreciate a choice Freudian Slip when she wrote one. Wetting the tip of her quill, she corrected the error.

_- ....__erotic__ euphoric bliss during and immediately after the process of marking. This state may last anywhere from hours to weeks._

From what she had gathered so far, the magic had been woven into and around her and Draco from the very first movement of the tattooist's needle. Regardless of whether it had started out as an ill conceived thrill seeking idea or whether they had knowingly meant to undertake Fida Mia, the spell was binding and inescapable once commenced.

Draco's tattoo, by far, had been the more intricate of the pair. Twice over the past three days, Hermione had attempted to sketch it. And each time, she had chucked her drawing pad aside in frustration.

It wasn't her artistic skills letting her down. Rather, it was the fact that on paper, Draco's wings simply did not look convincing. No amount of careful shading or contouring with her little stick of charcoal helped. On paper, the inky, black wings were flat, lifeless and seemed completely, well…wrong.

Perhaps she wasn't remembering it accurately.

She recalled how Draco had lain down on his stomach on the tattooist's table, wearing only his finely tailored, dress pants. Pants that were so dark, they had sucked what little light lantern light there had been in the small room and stood out in startling contrast against his pale skin.

He had been nursing a bottle of Ogden's when they walked into the makeshift tattoo parlour, and had magnanimously handed the bottle over to Hermione, with the precise instructions for her to consume at least a third of its contents by the time she was to have her turn under the needle.

"For the pain," he had explained pointedly, with a disturbing amount of anticipation.

Despite the fact that he was well and truly sotted by this point, his tongue had been as sharp as usual. He had pulled a face at the less than sanitary state of the studio, questioned the sterilization process used on the equipment and then made a few choice predictions about the likelihood of him receiving splinters from the rough, wooden table he had to lie on.

The hunched, ancient, tattooist had remained silent and impassive during this blithering, but broke into a scary, toothless grin when Draco poured the contents of his money pouch into the woman's cupped hands.

As it turned out, she did not speak a word of English. Neither did she speak French, German, Latin, Italian, Spanish, Gobbledegook or anything else they threw at her. The pleasant sound of clinking Galleons, however, seemed to overcome any communication barriers.

With her frightening dentition still on display, the crone had directed Hermione to a battered old couch in the corner of the room and proceeded to work on Draco with obvious glee. No doubt that the sight of such fine, well-paying, pureblood flesh, spread out on her decrepit workbench was a rare treat.

What followed was admittedly a bit of a blur. Hermione vaguely recalled lolling back against the smelly couch and falling asleep. When she awoke, she abandoned the bottle of Ogden's and padded across the room to check on Draco's progress. The blood that the tattooist was occasionally wiping away from Draco's back ought to have been alarming, as was the size of the actual tattoo.

But Hermione found the sight of the beads of dark red liquid welling up on his skin to be strangely stirring. She held her breath as she watched, not wanting to interrupt or unwittingly contaminate what felt like a very special ritual.

"Where'zer whiskey?" Draco had asked in a hoarse whisper. He seemed to know she was there without needing to open his eyes.

"Drank it all," she lied, thinking she was being extremely funny. Draco seemed to think so too. He opened his eyes, gave her a dazzling, if slightly goofy smile, before reaching up to bury his fingers in her long hair and tug her head down for a wet, sideways kiss.

To simply look at him, let alone to know him, Hermione would never have guessed him capable of such a kiss. It was his antithesis. Warm, welcoming, genuine and extremely gentle.

It had been the kind of kiss to make a girl's knees weak for hours after and cause her logic and intellect to apparently go into voluntary remission.

The squalor of the tattoo studio had melted away and the stick of rolled incense that burnt lazily in the corner imbued the room in a heady, intoxicating haze. There had been more than just drunken lust and teenage stupidity permeating the thick air in the room.

Hermione suspected that the spell had taken whatever mild inclination she and Draco might have had towards each other and increased it ten-fold, such that it had become impossible to see beyond the raw, pulsing attraction between them.

Their desire had been a living thing. Hermione's senses heightened to fever pitch. Everything she touched and observed held new fascination, Draco most of all. As the tattoo slowly took shape under the old woman's whippet-fast hands, Hermione longed to crawl into his skin to experience what he was experiencing. She had wanted to pull his long, lean body from the table and run her hands over the lines and hollow of him.

"Sweet," he had whispered to her, his thumb riding over her cheek.

His glib tongue had been on hiatus during the tattooing, lulled into submission by the sheer force of the experience. And indeed it had been sweet. So sweet and so powerful that they had taken off for the first motel they found and proceeded to do the only thing that felt natural at the time- consummate the union.

Several times over.

Draco had not been himself while the old woman has painstakingly needled his skin, and neither had Hermione. It was exactly as Tallowstub described in his book- a period of mind altering euphoria that had reduced their considerable brainpower into that of a pair of horny rabbits.

They had been lost in the moment, lured and lulled by the old spell. The trouble was that moments did not exist on their own. Each was inextricably, inescapably linked to the next.

And so here she was, days later, attempting to unravel the damage. With a sigh of self-disgust, Hermione flicked quickly to the last chapter.

_Chapter Six: Treatments_

Ten minutes later, her summary of the extremely concise chapter was not at all reassuring.

_- Spell is largely irreversible, short of the death of either party, excision of marked skin or amputation of marked limbs. _

_- Consult local practitioner for more advice._

Lovely. Just lovely.

Hermione shifted in the hard, straight-backed chair, painfully aware of the flush in her cheeks, the subtle warmth that had crept into her hands, the crisp, stiffness of her school blouse and the rough, scratchy texture where the collar of her outer robes chafed against the soft skin at the back of her neck.

Idly, she wondered if Draco was experiencing similar side effects. If he was, the git was doing a remarkable job of hiding it. He still sauntered down the hallways, seemingly without a care in the world. He still parted the sea of Slytherin subordinates in the Great Hall when entered the room. Still carried out his duties as if nothing at all was amiss.

And every time he looked pointedly at her from across the crowded Hall and stood up as if to walk over to her, Hermione was quick to make her excuses to her friends and exit post haste.

There were also benefits to being charged with the task of telling prefects where to go and what to do via the wonderful, blessed medium that was the Prefects Notice Board.

Hermione allowed herself a small smile. That week, she had determined that Draco was to oversee fourth year detentions, a task detested by the prefects. In short, she had been doing an exemplary job of avoiding him since their return to school. It also helped that they didn't share any classes together at the start of the week, with the exception of Advanced Arithmancy on Monday morning. But Professor Vector had been in good enough spirits to allow her soon-to-graduate students the entire period off.

And with McGonagall's permission, Hermione had taken the opportunity to make a quick visit to Diagon Alley Post Office, where she intercepted the letter she had arranged to be delivered to Dumbledore, should anything have happened to her during her brief visit to Malfoy Manor.

She could practically taste Draco's simmering anger at her constant avoidance.

This turned out to be just one of the many disturbing side effects of the spell. The more distance she kept from him, the better, Hermione figured. Particularly since according to Tallowstub, the effects of Fida Mia tended to be more marked when initiates were in close proximity with each other.

At first, the only noticeable effect had been an incessant tingling on her skin. It wasn't exactly unpleasant. Rather, it could best be described as if someone was blowing softly along her hip and inner thigh.

But there were other 'discoveries' she didn't care for. Not one whit.

The previous morning, for example, she had awoken in bed with the oddest sensation. It wasn't until she had felt her hand fumble south of her belly and slip past the elastic band of her knickers to grope at what was quite obviously _not_ there, did she have a mild and horrifying epiphany.

She was experiencing a phantom 'morning glory', and what was worse was that it was almost physically painful. Hermione didn't know what was more traumatic, having to take a tepid shower to rid herself of the 'condition' or knowing that several floors below, Draco's hand was probably having better luck inside his own underpants.

It was enough to give any woman panic attacks.

There were other niggling affects too, none of them welcomed; flashes of anger and annoyance that were uncharacteristic for her. She had snapped at poor Neville when he yet again managed to get his foot stuck on a fifth floor trick step and consequently held up the impatient throng of students behind him. She had swatted at Lavender when the girl had leaned over her shoulder to read Hermione's newspaper.

Hermione didn't like people reading over her shoulder, mostly because she read very quickly, and out of courtesy waited an additional minute before turning a page. While she would have normally tolerated the minor irritation, that morning her ire had been impossible to subdue. Thankfully, it took more than brusque retort to affect Lavender, and the other girl had simply given Hermione an odd look before returning her attention to breakfast.

Honestly, it was a fate worse than death. She was picking up Draco Malfoy's horrible personality traits.

And then, there was Ron and Harry, and to a lesser extent, Ginny. All of who were not oblivious to her less than cordial mood since Sunday. No doubt, they attributed it to end of school angst, a malady that many graduating seniors were experiencing. Lucky for her, there was a contagious ennui in the air and so her own restlessness did not seem so out of place.

She _longed_ to tell the boys.

One dramatic daydream had her dropping to the floor, bursting into tears of shame as she begged them for forgiveness.

But it was simply not to be done. Not yet, and not like _that_, anyhow.

The shame and remorse part was easy enough to understand. Disappointment with herself was something quite new, and it proved to be a very large, very jagged pill to swallow. The fact was - and she had come to terms with this over the weekend - that she had always thought rather highly of herself before the whole sordid incident occurred.

It was a real bubble-burster to discover that she, Hermione Granger, was just as normal as everyone else.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

Feeling thoroughly depressed, Hermione slumped her head on her folded arms and sighed loudly enough to turn a page on her notebook. Of course she couldn't continue avoiding Draco forever. It was inevitable that they would have to meet sooner or later to show him the letter she had drafted to send to Lucius's contact.

But until then, there really was no need for them to be seen together any more than usual. And what was usual for them was five minutes of bickering during prefect meetings or the odd, brisk, hallway exchange.

This was _her_ school, dammit! She was still Head Girl and she didn't like having to dodge behind corners every time the pompous, blond git walked through a doorway. Merlin knew there were already enough lower form girls trailing and giggling like ninnies in his wake.

If only they had more time. If only he would agree to work through their problem after school was finished. If only he wasn't so distractingly good looking. If only-

"Whatever it is, you look riled enough to take on sixth year detention for me this evening," said a smooth, slightly lilting, male voice.

Blaise Zabini was standing over her. His dark almond shaped eyes were warm with amusement. The Head Boy's badge pinned on his chest caught and reflected the sunlight that filtered through the lead-light windows behind her.

Hermione idly wondered if he ever polished it quite as much as Percy Weasley had done during the latter's tenure.

She blinked up at him, but was quick to shut her book in what she hoped was a casual manner. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Depends," he countered, the start of a smile appearing on his face. "How long have you been staring daggers at that book?"

"I stare at all books that way," said Hermione wearily. She pulled out a chair for him. "You're not at lunch?"

Blaise declined the chair and instead, perched on the edge of the table, crossing his ankles and stretching out his legs as he watched Hermione pack up her notes. "I wanted to catch you before class. You forgot to sign on next week's roster. Weasley was kind enough to bark your likely whereabouts to me when I asked him at lunch. Apparently I wasn't the only one looking for you."

"Bother." Hermione tapped her forehead in admonishment as she took the paper from Blaise to sign. "Sorry. I completely forgot. I'll take this evening's detention if you have better things to do."

Blaise blotted her signature before folding the paper with deft fingers and pocketing it. "I'll survive, though I _always_ have better things to do than watch Dennis Creevey make calf eyes at Roberta Carstairs. And you are allowed the occasional lapse, Granger. Especially since school's just about over."

Hermione watched him from the corner of her eye, wondering if perhaps all Slytherin boys were born with an overdeveloped 'elegance gene', or if at some point, an assigned mentor had taken them aside to teach them how to move and talk like they did.

Or then again, perhaps not. Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle were exceptions to the rule-- thick and blundering, as opposed to lithe and fluid.

Blaise was nearly the same size as she was, perhaps just a bit taller and was a sleek and coltish. Not so different from Draco, Hermione supposed, except that Draco was probably more panther than racehorse.

She had come to know Blaise well over the year. They worked well together, a fact that was not overlooked by the Faculty. Within three months of their instatement, McGonagall declared them to be the most efficient school captains since Molly and Arthur Weasley.

Blaise was also quite easy on the eye, Hermione had to admit. He had inherited the warm skin and dark, exotic eyes of his mother. In a school comprised mostly of students of Anglo Saxon backgrounds, his looks tended to draw admiring glances.

But while girls watched Blaise with warm appreciation, they tended to watch Draco with something akin to reverence. No wonder the boy had an ego so large it had its own climate.

There was also the fact that despite house differences, Blaise had always been a dependable partner, if not friend to her. If she had to fall drunk into the bed of a charming Slytherin, she could have done much worse than Blaise Zabini.

And alas, she had.

"Defence with Lupin now," Blaise reminded. "We'd be having another blessed free period, only Snape's not letting him spoil us." There was a pout to his voice.

This was not a surprise. Despite the lax attitude that many teachers were taking towards seventh year lessons, Snape had been on a mission to put the graduating seniors to what he referred to as 'more productive uses'.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Spoil us? If anything Lupin's had us working twice as hard since Voldemort's hiatus."

There were many reasons to dislike Hogwarts formidable Potions Master, but Hermione had always taken particular offence to Snape's blatant favouritism towards the Slytherins, not to mention his ill-concealed contempt for Remus Lupin. It was her inbuilt 'injustice detector', as Ron liked to call it. The trouble was that Snape maintained his dubious reputation only too well. Hermione could appreciate the strain that came with the role of double agent, but really, did the man have to be so bloody disagreeable?

And strangely, the only person who seemed to put up with Snape without complaint was Harry.

The events at the end of their fifth year had left a tangible mark on all of them, but most especially on Harry. For some unfathomable reason, Lupin had been hesitant to step into the role that Sirius had previously occupied in Harry's life. And for reasons of his own, Dumbledore did not force the case.

Instead, Dumbledore had urged Harry to continue Occlumency lessons with Snape. Apart from the occasional spat, the two had been plodding along without incident for four hours a week, for the better part of a year and a half.

Harry never said much about the tutoring, but both Ron and Hermione got the impression that on some level, Harry was comforted by the fact that there was at least one person from his father's generation, gently coerced or not, who was willing to be more than just peripherally involved in his life. The thought of Snape playing any sort of father figure role was bizarre, but Harry seemed none the worse for it.

Blaise was now drumming his fingers on the table. "I believe the phrase he used to describe us to Lupin was 'pampered, milk-fed layabouts'. We're to do manual labour this afternoon," informed the Head Boy, with enough disdain to make Hermione grin. "Even after a year, I haven't got used to the fact that Lupin's a werewolf. Times are changing."

"For the better," Hermione assured, as she accepted her book bag that which Blaise had picked up and was holding out to her.

So. Wednesday afternoon Defence Against the Dark Arts with the Slytherins. It was time to face her demons. Or more to the point, a tall, blonde, grey-eyed demon who currently had the power to ruin her reputation.

Along with her morals.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

Hermione Granger was a clever little bitch.

Of course, this was not exactly news to Draco, but he had the benefit of the past three days to truly appreciate just how wily the puffy-haired Gryffindor could be.

Student Heads and prefects were very busy people, granted. Most especially in the final weeks of school when there was a seemingly endless list of things to be done before Hogwarts closed for the summer holidays.

Head Boy Blaise Zabini, for example, was a dark haired blur as he zipped in and out of the Great Hall and Slytherin Common Room, prefect helpers in tow. He was usually the first person in Slytherin to be up in the morning, and with the exception of Professor Snape, the last to retire to bed.

However, the school was not such a big place that two students would be unable to conduct a brief conversation in private, in one of the Castle's numerous shadowy corners if they needed to. Even still, Draco had thus far been thwarted in every attempt to get close enough to Granger to even whisper an insult.

Honestly, the girl was proving to be as elusive as Crabbe and Goyle during spinach quiche dinners.

For the past three days, Granger had either taken her meals in her room or while she was on the move. Draco knew this because he went into the kitchens to question the house elves.

And when he did chance to see her, she was never alone. If Potter or Weasley weren't walking with her to and from classes, it was Ginny Weasley who accompanied her. From the cheerful, vacant expressions on her friends' faces, Draco surmised that they remained entirely oblivious to what has transpired over the weekend.

Well, good.

The last thing Draco needed right now was a purple-faced Ron Weasley challenging him to a duel in the Great Hall while Potter finally made inevitable contact with his dark and scary side and turned Draco into a pile of ash in front of the entire school.

It would be an amusing spectacle, at the very least, Draco thought. Snape would of course have to murder Potter and would be taken away to Azkaban without delay. Weasley would be thrilled to comfort the newly widowed Granger and Filch would be called in to mop up Draco's charcoaled remains.

Draco wondered if she ever intended on telling her friends. Probably not. She undoubtedly thought herself a paragon of virtue. Her squeaky clean image would be in tatters if word ever got out.

It was always the quiet ones, as Pansy often said. Girls like Granger always had a few skeletons in their closet. Draco didn't really know why, but the thought of being afforded the status of mere 'skeleton' didn't sit too well with him.

In his opinion, he was certainly unscrupulous enough to earn the title of bona fide Closet Monster, at the very least.

When the entire mess was sorted out, he wanted Granger to _remember_. When she was old and chubby with an attentive husband and three brats to occupy her days, he wanted her to lie awake at night remembering how she had been bonded to him, Draco Malfoy, even if it was for only two weeks.

It was his sadistic side, he supposed. He had long accustomed himself to the fact that he had one. It was inevitable, what with being a Malfoy and all.

She didn't look too much out of sorts since they returned from the Manor. Pale, yes, and her smiles were a bit too bright. Her grooming was still atrocious, but it wasn't like a weekend bonk with him was likely to change things. A sense of style was apparently not transferable via osmosis.

Other than her absences at meal times, however, no one would have guessed that something was amiss.

He had nearly caught her yesterday.

It was near the end of lunch and as expected, she was not seated beside Scar Head and his daft and many minions. Draco did however note that Ginny Wealsey had walked into the Great Hall carrying two, empty plates.

Ah-hah.

Edward Knox, a Slytherin sixth year, had delayed Draco on his way out of the Great Hall in search of Granger. Such were the numerous pitfalls of being devastatingly in demand.

"Malfoy, would I be able to get a copy of your sixth year Charms project?"

"You might. If that new broomstick servicing kit your father gave you somehow found its way into my room."

"Aww! I just got that!"

"I scored a hundred and twenty percent on that project Knox," Draco had reminded.

"_Fine_."

It had been a pleasant day outside. A tad too warm, but thankfully it didn't take too long to find her. Granger was lying on her back on one of the wide stone benches scattered around the edge of the lake. No doubt the granite had soaked up the warmth of the sun through the afternoon.

She had an opened book, an advanced Charms manual, placed over her face to shade her from the sun. From the sounds of her breathing, she was either extremely relaxed or at the cusp of sleep.

He knew what he would see if she removed the book and looked up at him. There would be dark shadows under her eyes, tiny blue veins just below the surface of the pale skin of her face. Her Cupid's bow mouth would be neither pursed nor worried. If he woke her now, she would squint up at him, would blink at him in confusion for a few moments.

Perhaps she would lick her lips.

Draco sighed.

He knew what it was like to crave sleep so badly that the small pockets of uninterrupted relaxation in the daytime was all you had to live on. Half the student population at Hogwarts was sleep deprived.

He had opened his mouth, then shut it and with a frustrated look towards the sky, stalked back to the castle in a fouler mood than when he had left.

What he really wanted to do was to shake her awake and plan their eventual meeting with Emmanuel Borgin. Borgin was a busy man and it would be necessary to make an appointment at least a few days in advance.

It had been small surprise that Lucius had volunteered Borgin for the task. The man was well connected and more knowledgeable about the movements of illegal merchandise than the Ministry would have been comfortable with.

And it wasn't as if Draco had all the free time in the world to chase after Granger either. Slytherin House was in an absolute mess and it was all that he, Blaise and Pansy could do to motivate the younger students to adopt a more responsible approach. The Common Room was filthy, students were blatantly smuggling all sorts of contraband into the castle and to the embarrassment of the entire House, a grand total of seven Slytherins that term had been cited for illegal duelling at school.

Since the weekend, when he wasn't scaring the younger students into wetting themselves, Draco was doing whatever discreet research he could manage on Fida Mia. After Lucius' initial temper tantrum the elder Malfoy has eventually seen the merit of plucking the family's copy of 'Fida Mia: An Enchantment of Honour', from the shelves and handing it to Draco.

All that effort might have been worthwhile if the book wasn't such a stupid waste of time. There was, according to the author, no cure. No remedy. No suggestions as to the existence of a counter-spell either.

Although there _were_ several interesting pictures, in particular on page six hundred and seventeen…

What _was_ informative was the chapter on 'effects'. If Draco wasn't certain that his belongings were riffled through at least once a week, he might have kept notes on his own experiences.

For example, Granger's blasted scent followed him everywhere he went. At first, he had been dull enough to assume it was Pansy or Millicent or one of the other Slytherin girls. Pansy was forever trying out the latest, noxious scents.

He had eventually asked her that morning, after breakfast.

"Rose?" Pansy had responded. "Is that why you've been sniffing the air all morning like someone dropped a Dungbomb?"

"Yes, rose. Tea rose, I think. I'd appreciate it if you didn't shower in the stuff. Too many open flames around the castle, Panse. You'd be sorely missed."

Pansy had given him an irritated look. "Well I can tell you it's not _my_ perfume. Tea Rose is a bit too old fashioned for me," she said, sounding slightly miffed that he would even associate her with it.

"Right," Draco had nodded. "Millicent, probably." "No, Millicent's been using August Winthrops's disgusting cologne. They're going out now. Really Draco, you're so behind on castle gossip."

Of course it had to be Granger. The scent was strongest in the morning, which Draco figured were the times she might have applied whatever product she was using.

And then there were other occasional, unexplained lapses of…

God, he couldn't even say the word in his head.

_Niceness._

There. It was sickening.

First, it was that incident by the lake, where he had passed up on the perfect opportunity to shake Granger awake until her teeth rattled. And then, early the next morning, a first year Gryffindor had taken a fall at the second floor staircase and was bawling loudly enough to make Peeves wither.

Granted the cut on her knee had been rather nasty, but on any other day, he would have stepped right over the child on his way to decapitate the Hufflepuff fourth year at the top of the stairs, who was doodling on the wall with a Muggle felt-tip marker.

"I don't suppose you could stop that awful noise?" he had snapped at the girl.

Ten minutes later, he was escorting her to the Infirmary.

He couldn't even manage any abusive alliteration, which was his patented specialty. He called her snot-faced and snivelling, but said insults weren't even in the same sentence and so, did not count.

Granger was like a brain abscess and she wasn't even decent enough to give him the time of day.

Sooner or later, they would obviously have to confer. He'd be damned if he was going to wait until the end of school to sort the mess out. His father was far too unpredictable and Draco was not going to risk losing everything he had negotiated over with the Ministry, just because his little 'wife' was suffering from a case of denial.

The last straw came when he checked the Prefects' Notice Board the previous evening before bedtime, to find that he, Draco Malfoy, had been assigned the role of overseeing fourth year detentions!

It was unheard of. Seventh year prefects never, _ever_ took fourth year detentions. They might have, of course, if fourth years weren't quite so irritating.

Students in years one to three were generally still in awe of the whole school system and were dully frightened and respectful when made to serve detention. They could be left to their own for an entire hour without the need to constantly check on them. Filch, for one, loved detentions with the junior students, often dishing out healthy servings of cleaning and polishing to his pale-faced charges.

From fifth year onwards, most detention-servers were too busy with assignments and study to waist an entire period being unruly. Teachers preferred taking these detentions themselves, allowing students time to do their homework in exchange for a few productive minutes of filing or sorting.

Not so fourth years. And the worst troublemakers were usually in fourth year. Case in point was the two Ravenclaw boys who had been caught fighting (with their fists, no less) in a classroom, and the girl, a Slytherin, who had instigated the entire thing.

Draco was seated at a teacher's desk in a second floor classroom with his feet up on the table, reading an ancient Muggle 'gentleman's' magazine he had found stashed inside one of the student desks.

The two boys were occupied varnishing said desks, while the girl was busy removing old notices from the board at the back of the classroom. It was sweltering that afternoon, despite the cooling charms Draco had liberally cast.

"Singh, be a dear and throw open that window, would you?"

The boy looked up, scowling. He threw his oiled rag on the ground, muttered something borderline profane and went to do Draco's bidding.

"How long more do we have to do this?" whined the other boy. Draco couldn't remember his name. Winston or Wimple. Or something.

"You'll work on those desks as long as I ask you to. If there's time, you'll do the cupboards too."

"You can't make us do that," said Singh, with what looked to be the start of mutiny. He stood up. "Professor Flitwick said we _only_ needed to do the desks."

"I can do whatever I bloody want. Get back to work or I'll turn you into a toadstool."

Singh gave him an incredulous look at this unlikely threat, but it effectively quelled the rebellion, if only just.

Draco glanced to the back of the classroom. "Excellent job, Carmen. You can stop now."

The other boy piped up. "What? She's hardly done anything! And she turned up late for detention too!"

"I'm partial to girls, you'll realise. Slytherin girls, especially. And the only reason she's serving detention with you two is because you were stupid enough to mention her name to Flitwick when you got caught."

"You know what? I reckon it'd be nice to know _who_ she's going to choose to visit over the holidays. Singh or me? We've only been waiting months to find out. I have to tell my parents so we can plan the rest of the summer break!" whined Winston/Wimple.

Ah. So this was apparently the reason for the spat.

The boy had a point, Draco thought. "Very well. Carmen, which boy will you be visiting over the holidays?"

Carmen considered this at length. "Karpal," she said, giving Singh an approving leer.

Singh grinned widely at his surly looking housemate. Draco had a few more minutes of uninterrupted page-turning before Carmen came to sit on the table.

"What are you reading?" she asked, tilting her head to the side. She was sticking out her non-existent chest at him and batting her eyelashes vigorously enough to cause a mild breeze.

"Muggle smut, Carmen. Nothing you'd be interested in."

She nodded. Slytherin girls were impossible to shock. "My older brother used to have something like that. Mother said it was common and made him throw it out."

"Knowing your brother, I'd say he had much more stashed under his bed."

"It is true what they say?" Carmen continued, her voice lowering, "that you'll inherit even though your father's still alive? I heard Millicent Bulstrode talking about it with Pansy Parkinson."

Draco had to admire her audacity. "Those two girls are terrible gossips. I wouldn't believe half of what you overhear."

"You'll be needing a Lady of the Manor, regardless. To help you run things. There isn't a wizarding lord under thirty who hasn't already been married off. Well, unless you count Enrod Higgs." Carmen looked thoughtful now.

"He's…"

"Fond of wearing paisley after five and has a standing appointment at Maurice's salon in Diagon Alley every second Saturday?"

She giggled.

"The wife can wait, I think," Draco said, responding to Carmen's refreshing candor. "As for running the manor, hired help costs less in the end."

"And where will your father go when his sentence is over? I hear he's a horrible tyrant to live with."

Draco's gaze lost some of its warmth. "You're very nosy, Carmen."

She shrugged, but had the intelligence to look slightly abashed. "I like to keep abreast of things. And you know Hogwarts won't be the same when you leave."

Singh had been trying to get Draco's attention for the past two minutes. But since the boy was calling him by his first name, as opposed to 'Mister. Malfoy' - which Draco had previously advised, on pain of death - Draco was quite happy to ignore him.

"_Mr. Malfoy_," Singh finally said, his fists balled at his side. "The bell's already gone. Can we go now?"

"You may, when you tell me what you've learned today?"

He blinked. "That fistycuffing in school is not to be done?"

Draco sighed. "What have we learned, Carmen?"

The young Slytherin did not disappoint. "That fistycuffing in school and getting _caught_, is not to be done."

Draco smiled. "Very good. _Now_ you may go."

The boys waited until Draco had signed their detention slips and then left as if the Dark Lord himself was at their heels. Carmen stopped Draco at the doorway to sign her slip. When he was done, she handed him a shiny, green apple from her bag.

"For you," she said, "because you missed lunch to watch us."

Draco, who was very fond of green apples, pocketed the offering and set off at a jog. He had defence class with Lupin and his fan club at Greenhouse Four that afternoon. It was to be an outdoors lesson, from what Draco had gathered.

Granger would be there, and she had better be prepared for what he was going to say.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

There was already a gathered crowd of students waiting outside the allotted Greenhouse by the time Blaise and Hermione arrived from the Library.

It was not an ideal day for outdoor activity, but that was precisely why the class had been gathered there. The weather had been especially humid since morning, and the dark, grey-blue clouds that hung over the castle had yet to follow through with rain. The air was still and heavy, with not so much as breeze to stir the leaves on the trees that bordered the forest.

The lake, which was usually a pleasant, shimmering blue, was a moody, cobalt and as still as pane of glass. Dragon fireflies, ink bugs and sand-gnats buzzed interestedly around the sweaty, irritable students. There was also nothing to be done about the mud-caked shore of the lake, or the smell than emanated from it. The giant squid had apparently given up on waiting out the heat in the cooler depths of the water and had clambered up onto the muddy shallows to sun bake, with a great deal of squelching and sliding.

As usual, the class had informally divided themselves into two groups. Despite the heat, the Gryffindors huddled close together, easily distinguished by their amiable chattering and the fact that most of them had stripped off as much of their outer uniform as McGonagall was likely to allow (should she chance to pass by). Sleeves had been rolled up and collar buttons left undone.

The Slytherins meanwhile, were a ubiquitous mass of well-pressed uniforms and were silent, save for the odd sniffling of a summer cold.

"There she is," Harry said, inclining his head towards the approaching Hermione. Harry was in comparatively good spirits that day, having conducted a very successful Quidditch practice in the early morning. It was Harry's express wish as graduating Gryffindor Quidditch Captain, that the team maintain its sterling standards long after his departure from Hogwarts.

Recent practices consisted of re-caps of patented Potter game play and rousing pep talks to the tune of 'keep winning or else I'll come back and hammer the lot of you'. The team were also trying out their new Chaser, a fifth year with the unfortunate name of Emma Snotscotter, but with the best batting arm any of them had seen since the Weasley twins.

Smiling widely, Harry waved Hermione through to the little bit of shade under which he and Ron were currently standing.

"You missed lunch again. We were just about to send someone to fetch you." Harry looked pointedly at Seamus, who had his arms folded and was in turn glaring at Ron.

Seamus was apparently having another disagreement with Ron, an occurrence that had becoming more frequent since Seamus had made his intentions towards Ginny known to all. "By send, he means they wanted me to run through the castle calling for you," said Seamus, sounding put out. "In this heat," he added.

Ron swatted at a sand gnat. "If you were clever, Finnegan, you'd have started at the Library. But you're not."

"It is stifling today," Lavender Brown agreed diplomatically.

Ron turned to look at her. Lavender had undone a daring two buttons on her school blouse and was vigorously fanning herself with Parvati's fluorescent pink notebook.

"There are some benefits," Ron declared, staring at the tiny, yellow flower print of Lavender's bra, which was observable through her perspiration-dampened, school blouse.

Lavender made a disgusted sound and folded her arms across her chest.

Harry and Hermione exchanged a look. It had taken Hermione a while to get used to Ron-the-sexual-being, as opposed to Ron the steadfast, dependable friend. Not that he wasn't steadfast or dependable lately, just that when the female student body was concerned – and she meant this quite literally - his attention tended to drift.

Dean Thomas was frowning up at the sky. "Looks like rain though. If Lupin doesn't hurry up, I'll wager we'll be soaked through before the end of class."

Lupin was attempting to pull open the rusted greenhouse doors. The recent damp weather had caused the wooden frame to expand and the task of getting the lot of them into the cool shelter of the disused greenhouse was proving difficult.

"It's a bit stuck," he informed, with another ineffectual tug.

Harry coughed once, and several of the Slytherins muttered in irritation. Remus Lupin's werewolf status may have become common knowledge since his official re-instatement as Dark Arts Defence Instructor, but as was his nature, he was reluctant to showcase any of his more eyebrow-raising abilities in front of his students.

This was despite Dean and Seamus's frequent cries of "bend this Professor!" or "how far can you hurl that?"

Hermione had only seen Remus Lupin in one direct physical confrontation since she had started with the Order, and while the sight of a full grown Death Eater being thrown, bodily, through a glass window was impressive, it wasn't something she cared to witness again.

Regardless of his otherworldly-ness, Lupin was a favourite professor, and not without good reason. He had what Dumbledore referred to as the Golden Touch when it came to instruction. Even the Slytherins managed to be somewhat respectful, a feat which only Snape had managed to achieve.

And unlike Snape, Lupin did this without the weekly threat of poisoning them just to see if they could brew passable antidotes in time.

The door finally gave way with the sound of scraping wood. Presently, Lupin wiped his damp forehead on a handkerchief and ushered the class inside.

"Right then," he gave them an apologetic look. "I know it's hot out this afternoon, but Professor Sprout recently alerted me to a problem and I knew I had to volunteer my seventh years for the task."

Lupin's hazel eyes were cheerful as they scanned the students, stopping finally at Harry, who was rocking on the balls of his feet and smiling back.

"Who are we missing?"

They were three students missing, in fact. Neville, who had accompanied Professor Sprout on a supply purchasing trip to Diagon Alley as part of his imminent apprenticeship; Vincent Crabbe, who had been pulled out of school by his parents after sitting for his one and only NEWTS exam, and Draco, who despite Hermione's profound relief at not seeing him there, had no real excuse for being absent.

"Not to worry. We should still be done within the hour." Lupin sniffed at the air. "Provided it doesn't start raining in the next five minutes…"

A large wooden crate was dragged from a corner of the greenhouse, upon which Lupin sat as he consulted his notes for the class. "Here's the problem. Professor Sprout was due to take delivery of a shipment of tropical Tangleweed saplings last week. Unfortunately, the delivery bird met with an, ah…accident somewhere southeast of the castle. The packet was lost and from what we can gather, due to the recent warm weather, the Tangleweed has been growing rampant around the edge of the forest. We've already had several complaints from Hogsmeade villagers who've been stung."

"What happened to the delivery bird, sir?" Dean Thomas piped up, grinning widely.

Everyone, of course, already knew what had happened to the poor delivery macaw that had been enroute from Burma. There were few things to giggle about during the NEWTS year and the students were always eager for a bit of respite.

Hagrid had been shooting down parasitic vampire bats for the past two months in his bid to make a bat-skin cape for his paramour of two years, Olympe Maxime.

Given the size of the Beauxbatons' Headmistress, this meant a lot of bats and on occasion, a lapse in aim by Hagrid.

Lupin maintained an expressionless expression. "It died, Dean."

"How did it die, sir?" Gregory Goyle asked.

Then again, perhaps not everyone knew.

"How it died is not important," Lupin stressed. "What matters is how we deal with the Tangleweed. That will be our task for this afternoon." He hopped off the crate and lifted the lid.

The students gathered around.

The combined heat of seventeen teenagers and one adult werewolf was considerable. Harry scrubbed a sticky hand through his hair, before wiping his fogged-up glasses on his sleeve. One thick lock of black hair was sticking straight up in the air in a perfect equilateral triangle. Smiling fondly at Harry, Hermione reached up to flatten the wayward locks. They sprung up almost immediately.

Harry suddenly looked less enthusiastic. Having spent the better part of his third year summer holidays battling the hedges at Number 14, Privet Drive, he was well aware of the purpose of the implements inside the crate.

"Er, you want us to weed?" he asked, staring at the numerous pairs of gloves and trowels with trepidation. "How is that defence against the Dark Arts, exactly?"

"Maybe they're Dark weeds," Lavender suggested. "You know, like Devil's Snare."

"Tangleweed isn't actually a weed," Blaise answered, giving Lavender a withering look, in which he was especially skilled. "It's an animal that looks like a plant, but was only classified incorrectly due to its lack of sentience."

Lupin nodded. "Very good, Blaise. That's precisely right. Before we go any further, however, I would like for everyone to pair up with your designated Task Partner and collect a pair of gloves, a trowel and a bucket."

It was testament to Lupin's skills in diplomacy that the class had put up only minor resistance to his mixing them up when it came to working in pairs. Girls with boys, Slytherins with Gryffindors, numbers permitting.

Given his ongoing mission to put an end to interhouse enmity, Dumbledore had been ecstatic with the arrangement. Not so, Professors Snape and McGonagall, who were convinced that the students would only quarrel and become distracted.

Hermione, not without some guilt, had found it a pleasant change to not have Neville constantly rely on her during lessons, although she might have enjoyed her D.a.D.A lessons more if Crabbe's personal hygiene had been as well developed as his Beating arm.

Neville, too, could have done worse than having Malfoy as a partner. Despite the constant putdowns, Malfoy generally maintained a professional attitude towards assignments for the precise reason that Lupin cleverly awarded marks to pairs, and not to individuals.

But with both Neville and Draco absent, and Crabbe gone indefinitely, Hermione was missing a partner. She approached Lupin, who was counting pairs of gloves. He paused and looked up to smile at her, except the smile seemed to have died before reaching his face. He blinked a few times, and it might have been her imagination, but she could have sworn he was...sniffing her.

"Professor?"

"Hermione," he began, seeming to shake off his momentary distraction. Understanding appeared in his eyes as he continued staring at her. "Ah, yes! I forget Crabbe is no longer with us. You'll have to partner with me for the lesson, of course."

Hermione thought that was splendid idea. She was just about to accept a pair of gloves from the teacher when the temperature in the greenhouse took a sudden dip and her skin broke out into clammy goose bumps.

She _felt_ Malfoy a scant second before she actually saw him.

They hadn't been in such close proximity since he had deposited her at the front steps of the castle on Sunday afternoon. Suddenly and quite disturbingly, she could sense _everything_ about him.

It was like stepping into his body for a few moments, making a quick catalogue of discovery and then darting back out again. Malfoy, not surprisingly was hot, sweaty, hungry and very tired. But there was a tangible anticipation as well, just below the surface.

Hermione didn't linger over any of this. Slapping on a serene look, she turned her attention to her folded arms.

"Apologies," Draco was saying to Lupin, sounding slightly out of breath. "I was unavoidably detained by duties."

"Quite alright, Draco," Lupin looked to the rest of class. "Let's see…"

Hermione's gritted her teeth. Oh no. Please no…_anyone_ but him. "Good! Hermione is missing a partner!"

Draco hardly spared her a glance. "An improvement over Longbottom, at any rate," he said, before swinging his bag over his shoulder and striding over to her. "What are we doing?" Draco asked.

"We're weeding," Lupin responded, with the tiniest bit of a challenge in his otherwise neutral voice.

Draco sighed. "Of course we are."

"Before we begin, I think it's best we go over Tangleweed attributes. Yes, Blaise, I do realise we covered this last year, but a bit of a recap can't hurt. Their sting can be quite painful if you're unfortunate enough to receive one."

The class watched as Lupin retrieved a rolled-up chart from the crate. He tapped it once with his wand, whereupon it unfurled, revealing an animated diagram of Tropical Tangleweed, complete with the figure of a wizard standing beside the enormous creature, occasionally hacking at it with an axe.

"Is that drawing to scale?" Ron immediately asked.

It was a good question. The Tangleweed in the diagram was at least twice the height of the wizard.

"It is, but the ones we're going after are only a few days old, so they'll be no bigger than a head of cabbage. A quick, hard pull should dislodge them, but take care to avoid their barbs," Lupin explained. "It helps to sneak up on them quietly. They spend most of the daylight hours sleeping, and tend to get aggressive when awakened. Fascinating creatures, Tangleweed," he remarked, nodding as he watched the monster in the picture smack the wizard over the head with a tentacle and then attempt to pick him up by his ankles.

The rest of the class did not share Lupin's enthusiasm. Millicent picked up a mouldy glove from the crate, made a loud 'ugh' sound and then dropped it back inside.

"Weasley," she said, beckoning him forward, "you can do the pulling." Ron rolled his eyes and went to collect their supplies. He gave Hermione an annoyingly sincere expression as he approached.

"Hermione, if you'd like a mysterious and highly suspicious accident to befall your new partner, you need only ask," Ron offered. The comment was obviously directed at Draco, who stared at Ron as if he were an annoying speck of lint plucked from a sleeve.

"Pity you were just late. It would be too much to hope that you've decided not to attend any classes this week," Hermione later whispered to her partner, when Lupin began fielding additional questions.

"Fourth years," was all Draco said.

Hermione pretended she didn't know what he was talking about.

He picked up a pair of gloves and a trowel from the crate. "You rostered _me_ with those irritating little shits for lunchtime detention today."

She gave him a radiant smile. "So I did."

"And you've been avoiding me," said Draco, under his breath. He was looking at her in the eye now, and as usual, Hermione felt her composure steadily erode.

"Only just noticed, have you? I've been avoiding you for years, Malfoy."

"True," Draco admitted, lowering his voice as they followed the other students out of the greenhouse. "For Head Girl, you're appallingly hard to corner when you don't want to be found. I might be cross with you for assigning me to what even the junior prefects won't touch, but there were some unexpected perks."

"Such as?" Hermione found herself asking, against her better judgment.

"Carmen Meliflua," Draco explained, with a salacious smirk. "A naughty, but delightfully ambitious Slytherin fourth year. Much like I was, at her age."

Thoroughly disgusted, Hermione opened her mouth to respond, but Lupin beat her to it. "Draco, less talk, more work, if you please?"

Lupin had been busy explaining to Pansy that a note from her mother, no matter how quickly it arrived, would not excuse her from the task that afternoon.

"Certainly, Professor," Draco said, with a smile as sincere as a used wand salesman. He stared down at the pair of soiled, mould-covered gloves he was holding, as if only just noticing he was carrying them.

The expression on his face was almost comical. "Granger, I think _you_ can do the pulling."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

They were assigned to the northern face of the castle, along with Ron and Millicent. Draco and Millicent walked ahead together, keeping up a steady stream of chatter. Hermione was roughly able to make out the phrases, 'new season line', 'St Barthelemy's for the holidays' and something about Millicent's questionable taste in boyfriends.

"Amazing how they can speak so much and say so little," Ron muttered.

"It's a talent," Hermione concurred.

"You feeling alright?" he asked, giving her an odd, sideways look. Hermione nodded. "Fine. Why?"

"Well for one you've been missing meals. And Lavender says you were a bit snippy yesterday. Harry reckons it's probably the heat. Or woman's stuff. Ginny always gets twice as annoying when she's down with woman's stuff..."

"It's the heat, Ron," Hermione said, tiredly. "I'm fine, really. Just run down."

They arrived at the edge of the forest, where a faint trail began and winded deeper into the trees. It wasn't so much a pathway as a well-trodden dirt track that Hagrid and Fang took whenever they ventured into the forest. Hagrid had in fact shot down the delivery macaw not far from where they stood.

"We'll split up. You two take the top of the path, Weasley and I will stay on the bottom end," Millicent barked. "If there are no objections?" It wasn't really like she was giving them options.

There were no objections. Ron gave Hermione a reassuring look as she and Malfoy set off ahead.

It took her ten minutes to locate her first batch of Tangleweed. Malfoy walked silently beside her, no doubt waiting until they were well and truly beyond eavesdropping distance before speaking his mind. They were relatively deep in the forest, deeper than most students would have ventured during school hours.

With any luck, a female Centaur would gallop out of the trees, declare Malfoy to be a too tasty mortal morsel to pass up on and take him away, Hermione mused. The thought was actually rather funny and she stifled a snort of amusement, while Malfoy gave her a suspicious sideways glance.

She ignored him. The Tangleweed was her main concern for the moment.

Despite its preference for warmer climates, the Tangleweed appeared to have little liking for sunshine. Juicy, fat tentacles lay in a deceiving, placid mess on the ground, but as soon as Hermione approached, they whipped into the air with a faint hissing sound, no doubt alerted to her presence by the vibrations of her footsteps.

The creature resembled cacti, for the most part, and was a rather pretty shade of violet, with deep purple barbs that were oozing a thick, white sap.

It was a small, juvenile batch, and Hermione had no problems subduing and then uprooting it. The thrashing of the creature in her gloved hands was quite unpleasant, though, and she grimaced.

"Have you written to Borgin yet?" Malfoy finally spoke. He was lounging against a tree, watching the last struggles of the dying Tangleweed with a detached expression.

_Here we go._

"I'm going to, very soon. I'm just…I just have to plan a bit more first. I've been doing some reading." Even to her own ears, her voice sounded small and subdued.

Malfoy made an exasperated, overly-dramatic sound.

"What?" she snapped.

"Give me the bloody contact and I'll arrange it myself. We'll have this cursed spell undone in one visit, and at half the price."

"I'm not giving you the address, Malfoy. Your father gave it to me because he probably doesn't trust you to initiate the meeting without mucking it up." The Tangleweed had finally stopped its thrashing and Hermione gladly tossed it into the bucket.

Malfoy seemed to have located some previously undiscovered internal reservoir of patience. He actually sounded polite when he next spoke.

"Only because my father knows that Slytherins are in the habit of snooping around each other's belongings. Blackmail is the oldest trick in the book. Even the first years know that. My situation is precarious enough without giving some ambitious housemate a reason to start rumours."

Hermione thanked God, for the umpteenth time that she had been Sorted into a House where the first years were more concerned with the correct and precise placing of Dungbombs for maximum effect, rather than internal power struggles.

"I've made a draft," she finally admitted. Actually, she had made a dozen drafts, but he really didn't need to know that.

He raised a hand to his chest in mock surprise. Hermione noticed he wasn't wearing the gloves Lupin had provided. Probably because he wasn't intending on doing any work, the wanker.

"Goodness, a draft. Don't you ever do anything without planning it to death first?"

"Fuck off, Malfoy."

He quit grinning. Now he was thinking, which was frankly worse. "Tell me honestly, Granger. Do you really regret what happened?" There was a telltale twinkle in his eyes which told her he was baiting her.

Hermione went red to the roots of her hair. Her embarrassment was tempered by the fact that she could feel his gnawing anxiety. It was balled up deep inside him, neatly obscured behind his colossal ego. She wanted to hit him in the head in the hopes of shaking free any threads of decency and compassion.

Honestly, he was turning her into some sort of violent, bipolar person - tired and withdrawn one minute, enraged and aggressive the next.

"Yes," she said, remembering that he had asked a question.

"I said honestly."

"And honestly, yes! I regret every disgusting, vomit inducing moment of it!" She hadn't meant to shout.

For some unfathomable reason, he looked pleased with her show of spirit. He nodded. "Give me your draft. My owl can reach Borgin faster than any school bird, and he's more secure by far."

"Fine, but if word gets out and it's all over the papers tomorrow, I'll find some way to exact my revenge, Malfoy."

"Come now, it hasn't been all bad, has it? Where's that scholarly interest of yours, Granger. Haven't you been experimenting?" He waggled his blond eyebrows suggestively. The whole act ought to have been ridiculously charming. But Hermione was wise to him.

"What with making deals with your crazed father, and getting accosted and manhandled by you in dark corridors, I haven't had the time," she spat at back him.

Malfoy feigned a look of innocence. "My tattoo's been doing all sorts of funny things," he informed. He sat on a moss covered log and pulled out a waxy, green apple from his book bag. Hermione remembered then that he must have missed lunch because of detention.

"Funny how?" she asked, both suspicious and curious.

He looked like he was posing for a portrait - 'snarky, evil, tormenting, git eating apple'.

Hermione couldn't help herself. She was tired and irritable and her gaze was too stubborn to control. Her eyes strayed to his cheekbone, where all trace of his nasty, split lip had long since been mended. The soft, sensual curve of his mouth was its usual quick-to-smirk self. He bit hard into the apple, revealing an upper row of perfectly straight, white teeth. A sliver of apple juice oozed from the corner of his mouth, and he flicked at it with his tongue.

_Look away you idiot_.

Suddenly she was rather sorry that fourth year detention had caused him to miss lunch. Who would have known that Draco Malfoy eating fruit would have been such a spectacle? She could probably charge admission. Lavender and Parvati would request that he have a go at giant lollypops. He'd welcome the attention, sitting there with a smirk and his strong, pink tongue attacking hapless, helpless, candy.

_Oh..._

"Do that again," he requested. She hadn't realised he was staring at her nearly as oddly as she had been staring at him.

Hermione blinked. "Do what?"

"Look at my mouth. You do that quite often."

She made a sputtering sound, suddenly thankful for the heat which had already rendered her face flushed.

"You're barmy! I wasn't looking at your sodding mouth, Malfoy. We're in the middle of a class, if you haven't noticed. Watch yourself before people start wondering why you've decided to forget seven years of bigotry and rudeness by suddenly talking to me."

Damn her eyes, which seemed to have a will of their own whenever he was concerned. They strayed down to his mouth once more. It was too much to hope that he would have a giant bit of apple stuck in his teeth or some such thing, but his smile was flawless.

And annoying, don't forget annoying. She promptly removed him from her field of vision altogether.

"Hmm," he said, in a pondering tone, "left wing just twitched." He didn't sound amused as much as speculative. If he had a notebook, Hermione thought he might have jotted in it.

This was Draco the A-Student, Hermione realised, whom she grudgingly admitted was slightly easier to get along with than Draco the Stuck Up Prat. He could actually be quite funny at times, though she'd happily swallow her Head Girl badge rather than admit that to him.

"Do you mean to say that your wings...move?" she asked, sounding horrified.

"It's more like a sensation of movement. Like tiny, sharp little currents," he explained, sounding speculative. "Quite pleasurable, actually."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Trust you to derive some sort of sick pleasure from all this."

Her derision was lost on him. "Too, I happen to be left-handed," he added, flexing his left hand.

It was an utter travesty that he should have such beautiful hands, Hermione thought, watching as he rested his hand on his knee. The tips of his fingers were sitting just over the delta of his pants, and seemingly on their own accord, her cursed eyes strayed _there_.

It's official, Hermione thought, with despair. I've lost the plot.

"Ooh!" he suddenly said, pointing to a spot just ahead of her.

With some trepidation, she looked. There was an aggressive looking patch of Tangleweed that had just roused and was hissing aggressively at them.

"There's a rather large tuft," Malfoy announced. "Have at it, then. I'm not about to be outdone by Millicent and Weasley."

Neither was she, actually. Hermione sighed as she grabbed the bucket. The second batch of Tangleweed was a sturdy specimen. Approaching quietly, she quickly gathered up the largest tentacles and yanked as hard as she could.

It was like swinging a hammer. The roots gave way more easily than expected and a huge deposit of wet dirt went hurtling through the air, whereupon most of it landed over Malfoy and his stupid, green apple.

The self-satisfied look was wiped clean from his face.

Hermione laughed in utter, evil delight. It was probably the first time she had felt genuinely cheered since their return to Hogwarts.

He didn't look angry, rather it was the intense look she sometimes got from Ron or Harry before they chased her and tried to do something horrid like smearing treacle on her hair. The idea of Draco Malfoy doing such a thing was beyond ludicrous.

Still, she wasn't about to take her chances. Swallowing her giggles, she grabbed her bucket and trowel, and pressed on further down the path.

Malfoy didn't immediately follow and Hermione spent the next few, peaceful minutes trying to locate additional batches of Tangleweed. There were none. She looked up at the canopy of trees. The foliage was much denser now and it was unlikely that the lost saplings had made their way quite that far into the forest.

She began to backtrack and soon spotted a shady clearing just off the path, to her right. And slumbering in the middle of the clearing, surrounded by an impressive crop of mushrooms, rotting logs and dead leaves, was a healthy patch of adult Tangleweed.

Feeling rewarded, she walked up to what she assumed was the largest bunch, bent down and pulled at the base. Hermione soon discovered, not without some apprehension, that this wasn't a group of small plants, rather it was one, large, broad Tangleweed. And it was hissing and spitting loudly enough to scare the Bowtruckles from the nearby trees.

Hermione dug her foot in the ground for more leverage, adamant that no magical plant, incorrectly classified or not, was going to get the better of her that day. With her left hand still maintaining a firm grip on the plant, she attempted to reach into her pocket for her wand, thinking that a quick Impedimenta would do the trick.

One of the tentacles snapped into action, latching onto her right gardening glove and pulling it off. Another tentacle followed, and without the protection offered by the glove, the thorns sank into the tender skin of her wrist and latched on. On instinct, she pulled her hand back, causing the barbs to break free from the tentacle and embed in her skin.

It was like getting stung by a dozen bees, all in the one spot. Hermione yelped, alternating between cursing and stomping her foot on the ground. The Tangleweed seemed equally flustered and began thumping its meaty arms against the earth in an intimidating fashion.

There was a brief, tense stand-off.

The commotion brought Draco casually strolling down the path, carrying no less than four bushels of Tangleweed, roots up. He wasn't wearing his gloves, but he was, Hermione noticed, holding his wand. He was obviously subscribed to the 'I Don't Work Hard, I Work Smart' School of Thought. Coincidentally, Ron was also a member.

"Alright, settle down." He walked up to her, looking irritated. "That's what you get for wandering off on your own."

It wasn't nearly so bad. There were a dozen small pinpricks where the barbs had latched on, but there were also two deep gouges smeared with toxic sap. Her skin was already beginning to welt up.

Malfoy tossed his things to the ground and then grabbed hold of her wrist to have a look. He peered closely.

"Bleed on me, Granger, and you'll be sorry."

Hermione could smell apple on his breath. She frowned down at her small, pink hand, held in his much larger, pale hands, so white in comparison to the blood on her wrist. She was wearing a colourful purple, resin ring on her right index finger that her youngest cousin had given her earlier in the ear. It was a sentimental piece which she treasured, but for some reason, now, she felt embarrassed by it. That, and her ink-stained, bitten-down nails.

She was instantly cross with herself for thinking such things.

"Those gloves are useless. You'd think with the donations the school's been receiving from the Governors, we'd be able to afford better equipment," Malfoy was saying. He pulled out the embedded barbs, ignoring her when she winced.

When she looked up at him again, he was watching her as if she were a particularly interesting potions experiment which was coming along nicely. He still had a smudge of wet dirt over one cheekbone and on the bridge of his nose. It didn't make him look less elegant. If anything, the blemished reinforced the fineness of his features and the glacier-like clarity of his eyes. Hermione resisted the urge to thumb the streak of dirt away.

It was the same instinct that made her try and flatten Harry's hair earlier. The only difference was that Harry didn't make her feel like her stomach had become a nest of Doxies.

"Better?" Malfoy asked softly, so close that she could almost count the flecks of blue around his irises.

"Yes." Hermione tugged her hand away. It was still throbbing.

Now he looked covetous, as if he was once again being offered a treat he had little experience in, and was suddenly eager to learn more about. It was like their odd interlude at the Manor, only he was staring at her with more purpose. And this time, Toolip was not around to offer rescue.

Oh no, not again.

"No," Hermione immediately said, backing up, not quite knowing what she was denying him, but thinking that she would have to articulate her lack of cooperation before he carried out whatever it was he had in mind.

"Malfoy," she said again, and this time he shook his head, as if he didn't believe her. She made a protesting noise, smaller than she would have liked.

He pulled her to him, and it was like being pressed up against a cement wall. "Just a little reminder," he whispered, cajoled even. Hermione had no idea if the plea was meant for her or for himself.

Good Lord. He was kissing her. It was a deep, thorough kiss. As if he was trying to bring foggy memories and sensations to the fore, if only to assume better control over them.

He hated not remembering. Hermione knew this about him.

She felt clumsy and uncoordinated. His nose bumped against hers and his tongue slid past the clamped vise of her lips. He smelled like books and apple and wood smoke.

His hands, which had held her to him like a steel brand against her lower back were now relaxed as they slid up to cup the base of her head just under her ponytail. Pausing the kiss so that they could take in air, he moved his mouth down along her jaw to the soft, sensitive spot just under her ear.

Scream, her brain urged. Shove him off and run back to the greenhouse. There was a steady, whooshing noise in her ears which she guessed was the sound of her blood rushing to her head. Her soil splattered hands were clutching tightly at his back.

Abruptly, he stopped and pulled away. His pupils were dilated, and his eyes were now as dark as the rain clouds that hung in the sky over them. Feeling immensely light-headed, Hermione went with him, not trusting her knees to hold her up. The look he gave her was disturbing and intense. And angry. For a brief moment, he held her against him, her forehead resting against his shoulder while they both caught their breath.

Malfoy was shaking slightly, she realised. Hermione was in complete wonderment at the havoc that the spell was wreaking on both their nervous systems.

He took a step away from her and this time, she did not follow.

"Granger, you might just be Hogwarts' best kept secret," he quietly informed, with an easy cruelty that pierced through the heady intensity of their kiss. He adjusted the front of his pants without looking away from her, challenging her to be embarrassed.

She met his stare, letting her loathing bleed into her eyes. Everything he did seemed calculated. His deceiving civility and the kiss that followed had been an experiment, nothing more, a diversion to take away the humdrum of daily life. Hermione was quite certain that if she spent the next decade learning everything she possibly could about Draco Malfoy, he would still surprise her.

They didn't speak on the walk back to the castle, which felt like an eternity. She might have wondered why he would pass up on the perfect opportunity to further goad her, but when she turned to look at him, the dark scowl on his face waylaid any further thoughts on the matter.

Matching their mood, the heavy clouds overhead finally followed through with drizzle. The air smelled heavily of ozone by the time they reached the start of the path and were greeted by a decidedly grubbier-looking Ron, Millicent and their small pile of Tangleweed.

Ron looked thrilled to be caught out in the rain, a thankful reprieve from the stifling humidity. He grinned at her, turning his face up to the soon-to-be downpour. His enjoyment was contagious.

But even as Hermione waved back, Ron's face drained of all colour as he stared in mute horror at the treetops behind them. Hermione was vaguely aware that Millicent was shrieking and bolting for the castle.

Feeling the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, Hermione turned around to have a look, but not before Malfoy knocked the wind out of her. And Ron too, it seemed. He was dragging both of them away.

"Malfoy wha-"

"Granger, shut up and keep moving!" Draco shouted. He was as white as Ron.

The reason for this was soon readily observable. In the trees behind them, steadily growing in size and height, was the Dark Mark.

Hermione felt her blood turn to ice

It blazed over the treetops in eerie, glowing silver. A smoky serpent slithered from the gaping mouth of the skull and wrapped itself around it, making the entire thing suddenly more solid, more corporeal. The Mark seemed to throb and hum, charging the air around them.

They couldn't have been the only ones to notice it. The thing had been launched high enough to be seen by at least half of Hogsmeade and all of Hogwarts.

From the direction of the greenhouse, Hermione could see Lupin barking orders. Students were running back to the castle at top speed. A smaller group of students, headed by Lupin, sprinted towards them.

Lupin's wand was still sputtering red sparks when he arrived. He had obviously alerted the rest of the castle. "Is everyone alright?" he asked, his eyes taking quick stock of Draco, Hermione and Ron.

"We're okay," Hermione said, breathless. "Is everyone else accounted for?" she immediately asked, her Head Girl common sense kicking in.

"Yes. You, Draco, Ron and Millicent were the last to return," Lupin informed. He herded the group further away from the edge of the forest, paying particular attention to Harry, who seemed intent on staying right where he was. Ron remained resolutely beside him.

Lupin looked ropable. "Everyone, report to the Great Hall and to your Head of House immediately, or you will face my intense displeasure. Is that understood? Harry!"

Harry was staring intently at Hermione "Did you see anything? Anything at all?" he asked her. She could only shake her head.

"Oh! Look!" Parvati gasped, pointing to the Mark.

The Mark was changing. The muted silver of the skull faded before becoming a bright, glowing green, and the enveloping serpent seemed to grow and expand with scales and clawed feet. Its blunt serpent's head lengthened into a snout. The forked tongue remained the same, however. It flicked repeatedly over the skull, leaving a whispery trail of silver smoke in the air.

The snake had become a _dragon_.

Hermione felt a sharp, painful burst of panic in Malfoy. It was like being kicked in the stomach. Unable to stop herself, she clutched at her middle and would have toppled sideways into Ron if Malfoy hadn't grabbed her shoulders to steady her.

"It's starting again," Blaise said softly, his dark eyes fixed to the sky. The rain was coming down heavily now, blurring the image of the Mark. It was almost like looking at a rippling reflection.

Lavender was clutching onto Parvati's forearm with both hands. "Professor Lupin, what's happening?" she whispered.

Harry was the one who answered. His expression might have been cast in granite.

"That's the Malfoy Standard! Lucius Malfoy must be free!"


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

It took all of twenty minutes for the entire school to be gathered and confined to the Great Hall, such was the efficiency of the prefects and teachers in spreading the alert. Two years of occasional drills, at the behest of the Minister for Magic, had worked well in preparing the students for just such an eventuality.

"Siege drills," Arthur Weasley called them, despite Molly's insistence that the name was likely more frightening than the actual exercise.

The enchanted ceiling of the Hall mirrored the minor panic of the people below, not to mention the fierce weather outside. The rain was coming down hard and heavy now, sounding like a thousand house-elves tap dancing on the rafters. People were shouting to be heard, Heads of Houses most of all.

With the exception of Professor Snape, who had not yet arrived, the other three Heads were busy checking students off their lists, making sure that no one had been left stranded in a bathroom or in detention.

Blaise Zabini took over the task for Slytherin, looking slightly harried as he bellowed out the names of his house mates. Minutes later, Snape all but flew into the Great Hall, black robes whipping behind him, scowl more pronounced than ever. His dark eyes searched and quickly located Draco's blond head in the crowd of students. From across the Hall, Harry watched as the Head of Slytherin cocked his head slightly; an almost imperceptible motion which appeared to have nonetheless captured Draco's attention. Draco shrugged off Pansy Parkinson's insistent queries and went directly to the Professor.

"What do you suppose will happen to Malfoy?" Ron whispered to Harry. Professor McGonagall had just checked both their names off her list and was calling out for "Xavier, Catherine!"

"If Lucius has found some way to free himself from house arrest, I'm guessing the Ministry will assume Draco knows something about it." Harry hazarded, somewhat surprised at how steady his voice sounded. His palms were still cold and clammy. It wasn't everyday that one witnessed the Dark Mark in such close proximity to one's self. Twice in three years was more than enough, thank you very much.

Ron was squinting at Malfoy. "He looks like he's swallowed a pint of castor oil."

"How can you tell?" Seamus asked, also looking in Malfoy's direction. "He's always that pale."

"Yeah, good point…"

Hermione was pushing her way through a group of first year Ravenclaws who were clutching tightly at each other as they struggled to listen to what Professor Flitwick was telling them. Lupin followed closely behind her.

"Ron," she motioned to him, "Dumbledore and your dad want to see us!" She was nearly shouting to be heard, such was the din in the Great Hall.

"My dad's here already?" Ron asked in surprise.

Harry dumped his school things into Seamus' arms. "Good. I'm coming too."

"You're staying put," Lupin intervened. He looked in no mood for argument. "You two, head up to Dumbledore's office," he told Ron and Hermione. "Wait there until you're called. I have to inform Professor Snape that Millicent Bulstrode will be required as well."

"If Dumbledore wants witnesses, I saw the Mark, I should go too," Harry insisted.

"You are to remain here. This doesn't concern you yet, Harry."

This was apparently the wrong thing to say, given that Harry went from being concerned to downright angry. He took immediate exception to Lupin's words.

"Of course it concerns me! Anything to do with Voldemort concerns me by default, or haven't you realized? I had enough of this in fifth year. Why are you even here? Why are any of us here if not to help fight against Voldemort?"

"I'm here to look after you, Harry," Lupin's topaz-coloured eyes flickered over the group. "All of you."

Harry countered this with a hard expression. Hermione noted, with resignation, that it was a look which he was using with disturbing frequency that year. "Yeah? Look after me? Are you sure about that? Even Snape's been more of a help to me since what happened at the end of fifth year. Everyone knows you only agreed to teach this year because nobody would touch the position and you can't get a job anywhere else!"

"Harry!" Hermione exclaimed, stunned at his rudeness. Beside her, Ron was gaping. Snape and McGonagall had both paused in their conversation and were now looking in the direction of the argument. It belatedly occurred to Harry that the noise in the Hall had diminished to a few stunted coughs. The wild weather outside seemed to be on hold.

Everyone was staring at Harry and Lupin.

"This is neither the time nor the place," Hermione hissed at Harry. "Come on Ron, we'd better get going."

Lupin nodded, as if the comment was meant for him too. His expression was pained as he next spoke. "We'll speak about this later. You will stay in the Great Hall or it will be thirty points from Gryffindor. I'm not playing, Harry." It was the coldest command any of them had ever heard him issue.

And with that, Lupin left to speak with Snape.

Not long after, Ginny made her away to Seamus and Harry. The three of them watched, in an uncomfortable silence, as Snape and Lupin conferred quickly, before escorting Draco and a whey-faced Millicent Bulstrode out of the Great Hall.

"Will someone tell me what on earth is going on? We were in Charms when Ernie McMillan came rushing in saying that Lucius Malfoy had attacked Draco in the forest," said a slightly out of breath Ginny. "If it was anyone else other than Ernie, I'd be worried…"

Harry didn't answer, but instead stormed over to the Great Hall doors and still deeply scowling, disappeared beyond.

Seamus, who was carrying Harry's things, gave Ginny a long suffering look as he sat down heavily at Gryffindor table and sighed into his long fringe.

**

Snape did not immediately offer up any information and Draco did not immediately prod him. As he often told Draco, there were only three places in Hogwarts safe enough to conduct a conversation with complete security. One was Dumbledore's Office, another was Snape's private quarters and the last was the Room of Requirement.

The Potions Master did, however, wait with Draco on the second floor outside the entrance to Dumbledore's office. Hermione, Ron and Millicent were already inside and in the process of being questioned.

Draco found it eerie seeing the school corridors so deserted in the middle of the day. After seven years at Hogwarts, he was used to students milling to and from classes; the chattering, scuffing and shuffling of feet. The distant activity in the Great Hall carried through the old stone of the castle, sounding like muttering and whispers, almost as if the stones themselves had awakened and were taking interest in the recent events.

Filch passed by once, making a quick check around the lower half of castle to pick up any stragglers. He gave Snape a nod, and Draco a sneer, although to be fair it was hard to tell given that Filch's sour look seemed to be a permanent affliction anyway.

The Caretaker's aversion to him was nothing new. Draco was used to people being less than nice to him. As he often told Crabbe and Goyle, he couldn't give a flying fuck what people thought of him as long as they left him alone to do whatever he pleased. That was the good thing about being a prefect – a private room and the ability to give detentions to snotty children who so much looked at him the wrong way.

At the moment, however, the cloud of suspicion and general dislike which he had put up since Lucius had been sentenced only served to remind him of just how precarious his situation had become since fifth year. It wasn't so much that he had a reputation to protect, it was more a case of him trying to protect himself from his reputation.

He felt slightly ill now, realizing belatedly that the fight or flight response he had experienced in the forest earlier was finally dissipating, leaving the bitter, icy residue of recently experienced fear in its wake.

A sideways glance at his Head of House revealed a scowling but largely unflustered Snape. Nothing unusual there. Draco was quite convinced that a panicked Snape would be a sure indicator that the end of the world was nigh.

He was right to have been afraid, though. Draco knew this. Dark Marks were no joking matter. In the past, they were used sparingly as calling cards; to inspire fear and dread, and to claim whatever heinous deed that was committed as belonging to Voldemort. The usual intent of the message went something along the lines of: _Anonymous Death Eater Wuz Here: Feel Free to Shit Yourself_.

Lately, however, Marks were being launched in the middle of attacks, as if the whole mystery and terror tactic - which was arguably the whole point of shooting off a Dark Mark in the first place - had given way to run of the mill Death Eater advertising.

Certainly, Voldemort's PR campaign was not what it used to be. Some of the younger Slytherins were even taking to saying the bastard's name out loud. None of that He Who Must Not Be Named business that Draco and his litter mates had been forced to swallow while growing up.

Hadn't Granger espoused something along those lines enough times? 'Fear of the name breeds fear of the thing itself', or some such rubbish?

God damn the girl. Bane of his week, his month, and given the way things were going, his year.

In the forest, his first instinct before noticing the odd shift from Dark Mark to Malfoy family standard had been to turn tail and run for the castle in an attempt of self preservation to rival Millicent's.

But Draco knew this wasn't the truth even as he thought it. Actually, his first instinct had been to grab Granger. And that realization in itself was leading him down a prickly path he really didn't want to go right then. He seriously doubted his life could get any more complicated than it already was.

As far as he knew, there might have been some crack squad Death Eater assassination team hiding in the bushes, itching to cast Unforgivables at the girl Harry Potter loved like a sister, or perhaps, better yet, at the son of the most notorious Death Eater traitor who had very recently shagged the girl Harry Potter loved like a sister.

It wasn't heroism, obviously. He was the last person Granger could depend on for singular acts of selfless bravery.

And oh! Some hero's sidekick Weasley turned out to be. When they finally decided to give awards out for Superior Effort in Just Standing About and Gawking Like a Moron, Wealsey was a sure thing for first class honours.

There was a scene wafting in and out of his head. Blame in on his perverse imagination. It was taking him some effort to shake loose the made-up image of Granger's slight body lying on the damp grass, her huge brown eyes vacant and empty in post Avada Kedavra-death, her normally bee stung lips blue, and her injured hand slack and open at her side. Gone was the perpetual 'don't-hate-me-for-knowing-what's-best' look she wore like a damned badge of pride. In its place was a frozen mask of accusation.

_You could have saved me..._

The lead weight in Draco's stomach seemed to drop further still, and his hands were doing worrying things to his now-wrinkled school tie. He continued pacing in front the gargoyle statue for a few minutes more before finally giving his godfather and exasperated, expectant and slightly desperate look. If the man wasn't going to say something in the next instant, Draco swore he was going to throttle him.

"It's not your father," Snape deigned to inform, possibly sensing Draco's frustration. His dark eyes flickered briefly over the still-visible streak of dirt over his godson's cheek. He pulled out a crisp, white handkerchief from inside his robes and handed it to Draco.

"Clean your face," said Snape, looking pointedly at the smudge.

Draco stopped in mid pace, sagging heavily against the stone wall. A huge dam of relief burst inside him. He swiped at his face almost absently. "Who else is in Dumbledore's office, then? Weasley's voice hasn't broken yet, so I'm guessing that baritone I heard earlier is someone else…"

Snape nodded. "Kingsley Shacklebolt was here earlier. I believe Nymphadora Tonks, Arthur Weasley, Alastor Moody and Horatio Coon are still present."

Draco looked up, recognition flashing in his silver eyes at mention of the last name. "Coon's the legal advisor that drafted my agreement with the Ministry."

"Agreement is a bit generous to describe that contract," Snape retorted, his voice dripping venom. "I'd have been less surprised if they had asked for your first born."

"In exchange for guaranteeing me my title and property, I just might have agreed," Draco returned, with a humourless bark of laughter. He was making a token effort at sarcasm, but Snape could see the shaky foundation beneath.

Draco had effectively traded sixteen years of his life in exchange for allowing his father to be imprisoned at Malfoy Manor. In return, despite the rules that normally governed what happened to the property of convicted Death Eaters, Draco would be allowed to legally claim all that his family owned, when his father's sentence was concluded. The contract had been drafted when Draco was sixteen, which made in legally null and void in Wizarding Britain, if not for Arthur's Law.

The whole contract was a piece of hypocritical, blundering dribble. It had been given the seal of approval by a Minister whose heart may have been in the right place, but whose head was full of vendetta-laden mutterings from a war committee comprised of aging wizards with long memories.

The Ministry, past or present, could hardly be called a model of egalitarianism. However, it was one thing to cheat adult wizards of justice, it was quite another to panhandle minors and then have the audacity to call it 'law'.

And given that the current Minister's most harped upon policy was to push for greater integration among the various members of the magical community, it seemed especially hypocritical for Arthur to render a potentially influential young man like Draco Malfoy alienated and subject to the whims of an unstable convict.

In the right hands, the boy was liable to be as valuable asset.

"This is taking too long," Draco muttered. They had in fact, been waiting for only seven minutes, for all that it felt like an hour.

"You do know what happened out there, don't you?" Draco asked quietly. He was used to Snape knowing about everything. Not that Snape usually divulged what he knew on request. Draco was no fool. He understood well enough that sometimes to be ignorant meant to be protected.

Snape said nothing, thought the slight narrowing of his eyes spoke volumes. Of course I know, you impudent whelp, but that doesn't men always mean I'm going to tell you.

All the Slytherins were well aware of their Head of House's somewhat dubious reputation in the community. While he might have lacked the squeaky-clean image of, say, Minerva McGonagall or Filius Flitwick, he more than made up for it with dark influence and force of personality. His methods were unorthodox, granted, but when a student had a serious enough problem to approach Snape, he usually managed to solve it.

"Then can you at least explain to me how, in the name of all that is magical, did Mosmorde change into the blasted Malfoy dragon?" Draco persisted.

Unfortunately, he was left to wonder if his godfather was privy to that bit information as well, due to Ron and Hermione finally emerging from the entrance of Dumbledore's office. Lupin came down the steps behind them, supporting a shaky-looking Millicent.

Millicent took one look at Draco before bursting into noisy tears.

"Mill…" Draco chided. The girl had lost an aunt, uncle and two female cousins the previous year in a botched Death Eater capture attempt and had never quite regained her usual, iron-hulled composure.

"I'll take Millicent downstairs, Severus," Lupin said quietly. "You follow Draco in, they're asking for him now."

Granger, meanwhile, seemed entirely ignorant of the fact that it was rude to stare. Draco made a point of looking right through her bushy head.

_I'm not one of your lost, little ducklings. Go play mother to Wealsey._

She kept on looking at him, the tiny frown line on the smooth patch of skin between her eyebrows became more pronounced. Draco glanced down at her injured hand, noting that someone had given her a hanky to wrap around it. Lupin, probably. Or Dumbledore. It was unlikely to have been Weasley, who tended to oblivious to life in general.

Weasley took hold of her arm then, and dragged her along. He was obviously eager to get going. Draco could hardly blame him.

"Come on, Hermione," he said, tugging with renewed urgency. Draco thought that Granger might have taken issue to being treated like a slow-to-respond pack mule, but she allowed herself to be led away.

It might have been his imagination again, but Draco thought he saw something different, something new in Wealsey's eyes when the Gryffindor twat had looked at him. There was loathing and suspicion, of course. That was nothing new. Weasley always looked at him as if he thought wealth and good table manners was a catching, lethal disease.

But today, there was also fear.

Draco was startled to discover he didn't care for that all.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

The large circular room that was Dumbledore's Office remained mostly unchanged since Draco had last been there. It was cluttered as usual, but Draco had always found it to be a pleasant clutter.

The décor spoke of a man who had experienced much in his many years; one who had accumulated a vast repository of memories that he chose to remind himself of, through the many possessions that he kept for display and tinkering.

Fawkes the Phoenix was conspicuously absent, likely on a personal errand somewhere for Dumbledore. The Sorting Hat sat on the shelf behind Dumbledore's claw-footed desk was looking rather faded and woebegone. To Draco's left, the portrait of Phineas Black was staring beadily at him.

"Looking more and more like your father every day, boy," commented the portrait of the former Headmaster.

"Thanks," muttered Draco, who was by now quite used to hearing the comment.

There were five people looking at him rather seriously. Dumbledore was noticeably less jovial but gave him a reassuring smile, nonetheless. Alastor Moody and Horatio Coon looked to be in the middle of a disagreement, while Arthur Weasley, meanwhile seemed thin and tired.

There was also a young woman, an Auror probably, Draco guessed, seeing as she lacked the pale, slightly jaundiced look of the Ministry's overworked paper pushers. She stood from the others not just because she was female, but also because she was sporting waist length hair that was the colour of ripe blueberries. Draco recalled Snape mentioning a name earlier, and he regretted not paying attention.

"Take a seat Draco, Severus," Dumbledore said, in a mild voice. The Headmaster dug into a desk drawer and produced a large uncapped jar. "Toffee?" he asked the assembled group.

Everyone declined politely, with the exception of the woman. She accepted a particularly fat specimen with a gracious smile and then proceeded to chew on it in silence.

"I realise you probably have a few questions of your own, Draco, but its best we get the preliminaries over with, agreed?" Dumbledore said. He had put on his spectacles.

Moody pulled out a quill and a battered, dog-eared notebook and began the questions. "Granger tells us that the two of you were likely the closest ones to the location of the Mark when it was shot off. This occurred roughly at the end your Defence lesson with Professor Lupin after lunch this afternoon, is this correct?"

Draco tried hard not to gawk at Moody's magical eye as it proceeded to slowly body-scan Draco, starting from his shoes. "Yes."

"Granger and Weasley have indicated, as shown on this map, your approximate location when you witnessed the Mark." Moody placed the map on Dumbledore's desk. "Is this accurate?"

Draco leaned forward in his seat to have a look, blinking slightly at the strong scent of mildew and mothballs that was coming of Moody's long coat. Granger hadn't only marked the location, the chronic over-achiever had traced a line from where they had commenced their foray into the forest, to where they had first seen the Mark.

"That's accurate," he confirmed.

Moody stepped back, seemingly satisfied. Coon took over. "Did you see or hear anything odd while you were in the forest?"

"Other than the fact that students were undertaking grounds-keeping duties, no," Draco replied, in a flippant tone he hadn't used when speaking to Moody.

"It'd be better if you dropped the attitude, Malfoy," Coon warned.

The bald, greasy little midget had changed little since Draco had last seen him. He had obviously been promoted within the Ministry, given that he was now accompanying the Minister on trips. Lucius had always said that Ministry brown-nosers were to be mildly tolerated because they often had their specific uses. It was a worry, however, that Arthur Weasley seemed to take this one so seriously.

"Settle down, Coon, you know this is how he usually is," announced the blue-haired woman.

Draco frowned at her. "I'm sorry, but _who_ are you?"

She laughed then, which was unnerving given the tension in the room. "The name's Tonks. Nymphadora Tonks if you must know, and really, I'd rather you didn't. Just call me Tonks. We're cousins, Draco. On your mum's side."

Goodness. She was Andromeda's daughter. Batty Aunt Andromeda who, to her sister Narcissa's everlasting horror, had run off and married a Muggle before their father had had a chance to arrange a respectable marriage for his oldest and most wayward child. Lucius only ever mentioned the woman's name once or twice and Draco recalled that it was always sandwiched between rude words and speculation about 'questionable siring'.

Draco watched, then, with renewed interest as Cousin Tonks stuck two fingers in her mouth, dislodged a piece of toffee from where it was presumably stuck in her teeth, before sucking the sweet back into her mouth again.

Well. Family was family.

"Charmed," said Draco.

"Likewise," Tonks replied. "If we could get back to the matter at hand?" Coon interrupted.

Snape cleared his throat. "Indeed. I believe you promised Mr. Malfoy some answers. You might start with an explanation of how the Mark came to Hogsmeade in the first place."

Coon obliged. "Rest assured, Draco, your father remains securely contained at Malfoy Manor. There was a break-in at a Ministry vault over the weekend. The theft occurred in two evidence bunkers. Among the items stolen were confiscated portkeys, various Dark Magic paraphernalia and a wand." Coon paused. "Your father's wand, to be precise. We believe it was used to cast Mosmorde, which you were unfortunate enough to witness this afternoon."

"What about my family standard?" Draco asked. "Why did that appear in place of the Mark? I can't say it's done wonders for my image…"

Snape rolled his eyes.

Dumbledore stepped in. "I believe Alastor would be the best person to explain that to you, given that the spell is his brainchild."

Coon made a dissenting noise. "Headmaster, with all due respect, that is classified information. The boy is hardly authorized-"

"He will be by the end of this meeting," Dumbledore stated, giving Coon a level look. In any case, I authorize it."

The mild tone was replaced with soft steel. "Arthur? Any objections?"

The Minister shook his head.

Moody looked impatient now. "Flitwick tells me you've a good hand at Charms, so I'm not going to dumb this down for you, boy."

"Appreciated," Draco replied dryly.

"As you know it's next to impossible to make a standard Tracking Charm stick to a person. Good, solid, inanimate objects, things like clothing and possessions, now that's do-able, but it's different with a body." Moody rubbed at his chin. "Doesn't work as well in the wet, you see."

Draco didn't see."The 'wet'?"

"Water, boy. Water. The human body is mostly made up of water. You can't track a turnip with any great accuracy and you can't track a person with the spells we've got at the moment."

"You've worked out some way to track wands, haven't you?" Draco asked, immediately intrigued.

His seventh year advanced charms project had been to write about the potential of magical sensor spells. The topic the class had been asked to focus on was the sensor spells that were used at the Magical Birth Registry, but Moody's concept was similar.

Moody grunted. "It's more a case of us being able to track certain spells on a tagged wand. The eggheads over at Research tell me that some spells have a stronger register than others. They stand out. The more magically complex a spell is, the stronger the signature is. The tag won't work on things like Lumos or Alohomora, but on Unforgivables for example, memory fixing spells, things like-"

"Mosmorde," Draco supplied.

"Yep," Moody nodded. "I volunteered your dad's wand as our prototype, since we figured it'd have an, ah, particularly strong _history_ of potent spell casting. We needed a Marker to test the spell and the Malfoy Family standard seemed the easy choice given it was Lucius' wand we were using. Unfortunately for the person who stole it, the Marker spell was still in place when the wand was taken."

"And you can set whatever Marker you want?" Draco asked.

Moody nodded. "Anything we want." He rubbed his chin. "I was thinking of a great big, red X for Voldemort. With instructions to whomever is in the vicinity to fire at will." He chuckled. Only Tonks managed to grin.

"So someone's going to have to get close enough to Voldemort to tag his wand?" Draco surmised. A rather heavy ball was about to drop, he suspected.

Moody snorted. He shuffled forward to sit on the edge of Dumbledore's desk. "Boy, if any Auror worth their salt managed to get _that_ close to him, we'd try for a hell of a lot more than tagging the bastard's wand. We don't actually need to know who a wand belongs to before we tag it. We just need to get close enough…"

Draco frowned. "I don't understand? You want to tag Voldemort's wand?"

"Given that Voldemort has proven to be continually elusive, we're thinking we might be able to find him through secondary sources," added Coon.

Snape seemed to catch on. The Slytherin Head of House stood so quickly, he made a breeze. "No. Absolutely not! "

"No to what?" Draco asked, starting to stand up too, Snape all but shoved him back into his seat.

"Come now, Professor. I can't be that much different from being the leader of…what was his little group called again? 'The Inquisitorial Squad'?" Coon looked pointedly at Draco. "You took Dolores Umbridge's orders easily enough."

Draco took his que from his obviously furious Head of House. "They were easy orders to take. Terrorising students isn't exactly new to me nor is it particularly difficult. Besides, it was quite clear her reign at Hogwarts was temporary."

"And you don't have any feelings of remorse for your behaviour that final term? I'm told you even accosted fellow students under Umbridge's orders."

Draco smiled sweetly. "Mr Coon, if I did, you're the last person I'd be telling."

Tonks snorted.

"We're not asking you to spy for us, Draco," Arthur Weasley felt he needed to clarified.

"What exactly are you asking me to do then?" Draco retorted.

Nobody seemed to think it odd that Snape was the one to explain. He did so without taking his eyes of Arthur Weasley. "It did seem strange to me that the Minister himself should take time from his busy schedule to be present at what the Auror Unit would classify as a routine questioning." Snape expression was malevolent. "They're not just here to question you about what happened in Hogsmeade, Draco. Based on what I can only assume is one-sided information and out-dated intelligence, they think you're the best person to 'tag' Housemates you suspect as most likely to join with Voldemort."

"Oh," said Draco, at a loss for words. And then quite suddenly, he was angry.

Arthur looked sympathetic. "Young man, I realize that your family's relationship with the Ministry of late has been strained, but we would like to give you an opportunity here."

"To what? Redeem myself?" Draco interrupted, his voice heavy with sarcasm. "Save the name Malfoy from further disgrace, you mean?" his eyes narrowed and his voice took on a bitter, quiet note. He stared at Arthur. "Do you think someone might offer your son a similar outlet?"

Arthur was taken completely by surprise at mention of Percy, and for a moment, his expression of concerned authority slipped. He cleared his throat.

"You watch your tongue, boy," Moody growled.

"I really don't think he's being logical about this," Coon muttered to Dumbledore.

The comment raised Snape's eyebrows. "You found Lucius Malfoy contained within the Ministry, in full Death Eater regalia, with eight of the most wanted men in wizarding Britain and after a two month stint in Azkaban, you send him where? _Home_! Somehow, I doubt it is Draco's judgement you should be questioning."

"Why not ask Potter?" Draco suggested, "he hasn't saved or killed anyone in all of six months. The murder and mayhem scene has been a bit quiet lately. He might jump at the chance to play hero again."

"You dare compare yourself to Harry Potter?" Coon admonished.

"I wouldn't presume to, given the fact that he's got the emotional maturity of a terrapin," Draco snapped. "You'll pardon my saying so, but working for the side of Good and Light hasn't exactly made Harry Potter happy or well adjusted. You Ministry types have a habit of screwing heroes over." Draco might have imagined it, but he thought he noticed Dumbledore's eyes flicker to Snape for the smallest moment.

Coon's face purpled. "You're father wasn't so quick to dismiss a generous gesture from the Ministry!"

That's it, Draco thought, as his fists tightened. He was going to punch the smarmy little toad right in the mouth. Consequences be damned.

"Enough," Dumbledore quietly seethed. His voice was little more than a whisper but it had the intensity and the effect of a thunderbolt.

Arthur Weasley looked pale and unhappy, but his eyes were flinty with determination "I'm sorry Albus, but the others have approved this."

It didn't occur to Draco that Dumbledore might have already rejected the offer on his behalf. It just seemed more like the kind of thing he would have done for Potter.

"And how exactly would you like him to find out the necessary information before using the spell?" Snape sneered, ignoring the heavy look that passed between the Minister and the Headmaster. "Would you have him _ask_ his classmates if they plan on running to Voldemort in the near future?"

"Be our eyes and ears in Slytherin," Coon responded. "That's all we ask. Report any unusual activity in these final days at school and more importantly, during the summer to follow."

Snape was not finished. "Slytherin House, both currently and among our alumni is not what it used to be. It's scattered, divided. Alliances and friendships are tentative, at best. What you want the boy to do is near impossible."

"What do I get in return?" Draco's question was so quietly stated that for a moment, Coon thought he had misheard.

"Your father will be moved to another location to serve out the rest of his sentence, leaving you free to reside at Malfoy Manor. Your original contract with the Ministry stands. Your father will still cede his title to you when you graduate from Hogwarts next week, and you will inherit what your grandfather left you."

Draco looked sceptical. "My father will die before setting foot in Azkaban again, and if I'm not mistaken, he signed an agreement with you to avoid that very fate." "It won't be Azkaban we'll be taking him to" Coon explained. "We're in the process of arranging a secure, comfortable location outside of Britain."

Oh, Lucius was going to love that.

"He'll be allowed access to the most basic magical amenities but I daresay his existence will be vastly improved. I'm sure you'd want the best for your father."

"Oh yes, of course," Draco agreed. "The very best."

There was a very long pause, during which the only sound in the room came from the whirring magical mechanics of Dumbledore's many contraptions.

"Outside of Britain, you say?" Draco finally asked.

Snape was staring at him as if he'd lost his mind.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

It occurred to Hermione, just before she stumbled outside the Gryffindor portrait hole and nearly twisted her ankle on a bit of upturned carpet, that she had lost her knack for sneaking around the castle since her appointment as Head Girl.

For one thing, no matter how muted her Lumos was, the strength of the spell still managed to light up a five square meters of stairway. Harry had mentioned something similar the previous term, with much resignation.

Long gone were the days when it actually took a bit of thought and practice to cast a Lumos that wouldn't snuff out after a few minutes.

Groping around in the dark was made a great deal easier, however, when one was able to rely on one's excellent memory of the castle. Suit of armour to the left, mouldy, old tapestry to the right, sixteen or so meters of what should have been bare stairway except some bright spark had left a pair of Quidditch boots on the tenth step down.

Thankfully, the full moon was shining through from the tall windows along the upper floor corridors, and so Hermione narrowly avoided tripping over the offending footwear. Hanging on to the banister, she allowed herself a few calming breaths, imagining - with a half amused snort - the scene that could possibly have greeted students in the morning. First year Hufflepuffs would emerge tousled-haired and puffy-eyed from their dorms, only to run screaming at the sight of their Head Girl, lying broken at the bottom step of the foyer, pink bedroom slippers askew...

In addition, perhaps her baggy, old, Kermit the Frog t-shirt and a pair of raggedy, too-long pyjama bottoms that had previously belonged to her father did not constitute ideal attire for sneaking about. The t-shirt snagged on a bit of rough stone wall, and she had been forced to roll up the hem of her trousers to avoid tripping over.

With the amount of noise she was making, she was liable to be discovered by one of the Aurors who were currently patrolling Hogwarts grounds. There were six Aurors, in fact. Three more were stationed at Hogsmeade, where they would stay for the remainder of school term.

Following the tense questioning in Dumbledore's office, Hermione, Ron and Millicent had been ushered back to the Great Hall by Professor Lupin, where the entire school had been waiting for a briefing by Dumbledore.

Hermione supposed she might have been buoyed by the lack of panic among her fellow students, but then she reminded herself that their relative calmness was due to the fact that most of them had experienced similar disturbances before. Death Eater appearances were thankfully scarce, but they were always well documented, right down to the tiniest detail. Arthur Weasley was keen to distance himself, as much as was humanly possible, from Fudge's delusional policy of 'keep quiet and it'll go away'. The press reported everything. A third of it was pure hyperbole, but what mattered, in Hermione's opinion, was that it was reported. Even the youngest children knew what to do in the worst case scenario- run, if possible, and hide, if not.

They were all learning, Hermione decided, Dumbledore as well.

Granted, the old man still had enough secrets to keep scholarly investigators busy for a few centuries, but he no longer practiced the 'need to know' edict that had been in place during Harry's early schooling years at Hogwarts. Harry respected him for this, but Hermione could well understand that blind trust was no longer on the agenda. Not since Sirius died.

In the Great Hall, on that unfortunate Wednesday afternoon, a thousand curious students had listened with complete attention as Dumbledore relayed the truth of the events that had taken place in the forest.

There were only about fifty different versions of the Dark Mark sighting going around the tables, each as ridiculous as the next. The truth seemed no less remarkable however, and at once, the students began to speculate on the likely whereabouts of Lucius Malfoy's (by now infamous) stolen wand.

By the end of it, more than a few people, teachers included, were indeed relieved to know that there was still only one Malfoy at Hogwarts, and that it was, thank the Gods, not Lucius.

Classes and all other extra curricular activities had been cancelled for the remainder of the day. Hermione had not seen Draco until he had walked into the Great Hall during dinner the following evening. He looked fine. No sign of great stress or anxiety. Every hair on his blond head appeared to be perfectly in place. The same cool expression was there, though there was a sharpness to it now. It was the same sort of challenging look he had sported for weeks after Lucius had first been incarcerated in their fifth year.

His classmates were cordial, but reserved. Nothing unusual for Slytherins. Gregory Goyle's badly broken leg from a wayward Bludger during Quidditch training the previous week had been mended enough for him to return to his usual activities, and he was once again dining with his Housemates.

Goyle alone looked unabashedly happy to see Draco and thumped him heartily on the back. The spontaneous gesture went down well with the rest of the table. Pansy Parkinson's tight smile relaxed somewhat and after a few exchanged greetings, the rest of the Slytherins turned their attention to dinner. Blaise Zabini even glared around at the rest of the Hall, as if silently ordering everyone else to Get On With Life.

They did, and with enthusiasm. Granted, dinner had been delayed by nearly an hour that evening so everyone was hot, thirsty, tired and famished.

Draco did not once look her way during the meal, which suited Hermione just fine. She had other concerns, although eating her dinner hadn't been one of them. Her appetite had been missing in action since the weekend, and she was already starting to notice the slackening at the waistband of her school skirt, and a feeling of lethargy that had become constant.

Her attention span wasn't faring too well either. She had been pushing a piece of baked potato around a pile of beans on her plate, completely oblivious to the fact that Harry was being harangued by another Gryffindor for the thirty points he had lost in disobeying Lupin the previous afternoon.

Oddly enough, it was Lavender who put an end to it.

"I think we have more important things to worry about than House Points," Lavender had sniffed, sounding terribly grown up.

It was a subdued and sleepy crowd by the end of dinner. As per usual practice in times of heightened security, students were to be escorted to and from classes by teachers or senior prefects. Students made for the doorway at strolling speed, flanked by Hermione and Blaise. Draco followed, two heads taller than the fourth years in front of him.

Goyle walked (with a noticeable limp) in front of Draco, his massive form creating a minor bottleneck as they approached the doors. The younger students, yawning and in a hurry to get into bed after their late dinner, pushed and shoved. Hermione vaguely registered that Blaise was snapping at them not to rush.

The tail end of the departing group came to a near standstill, leaving Draco standing beside her. He sighed with irritation at the delay.

Hermione had experienced the distinct urge to fidget. All at once, she had became acutely aware of him; his height, his body and that clean, light, male scent that was intrinsically Draco. It had been exactly the same experience in the forest when the main effect of Fida Mia had reared its ugly head.

She cursed the fact that she could no more try to think or act normally in close proximity to Draco Malfoy, than she could spontaneously acquire Harry's supernatural talent on the Quidditch pitch.

Given the new turn in their relationship (such as it was), Hermione felt like she ought to have said something, offered some semblance of comfort or reassurement in light of what they had witnessed together in the forest the previous day. She recalled the way she sometimes squeezed Ron or Harry's arm to let them know it was alright, that she was there. The way Ginny would loop an arm around her shoulders when Harry engaged in something mortally hazardous and Hermione would be stricken with worry.

It was something friends would have done for each other. But not with Draco. Oh no. He made that quite impossible. Any demonstration of support on her part, no matter how platonic or sincere, would probably elicit that same annoying, knowing glint in his eyes.

He read too much into things. It was ironic, Hermione couldn't help but think, that after years of lamenting the general thickness of boys, she had finally come across one who used intuition like a weapon.

"Step on my heel again, Dodders, and I'll thump you," Draco said rather tiredly, to the tiny, third year Slytherin behind him. Hermione glared. It was not a normal day at Hogwarts when Malfoy didn't make at least one younger student red with embarrassment or anger.

He brushed past her, and it was then that she felt him shove something into her palm- a small scrap of paper. She had instinctively tightened her fist around it, hoping that her expression did not register her surprise. The momentary bottleneck was over, and the crowd was moving along once more.

After a final, quick word with McGonagall and Blaise, Hermione had hurried to her room to read the note. It didn't seem odd to her that she recognised his handwriting. She had certainly seen the same bold, slightly slanted strokes on the blackboard in class enough times over the past seven years.

He had girls' handwriting, she couldn't help thinking, with a bit of a smirk.

_We will send the letter tonight. Meet me in the Owlery after second watch. _

_Bring owl treats._

How very to-the-point.

She had been slightly impressed with his persistence in bringing the whole blasted Fida Mia fiasco to a quick end. God knew he certainly had enough on his plate to be getting on with at the moment.

So when the Aurors' first scheduled patrol ticked over into 'second watch' at roughly two am on what was now very early on Friday morning, Hermione left Gryffindor Tower. Ten minutes later, after narrowly avoiding the disaster on the steps, she arrived at the Owlery located at the top of the West Tower.

The tall wood-rotted door to the Owlery was slightly ajar. With some trepidation, Hermione pushed it open, half expecting the rusted hinges to protest with many centuries of neglect. The bottom of the door caught at the straw and other organic debris on the floor, but thankfully gave way without too much noise.

Once inside, Hermione was greeted by the familiar smell of bird droppings, damp and the faint whiff of not-toorecently caught prey. Aside from fortnightly letters sent to her parents using either Hedwig or a school owl, she didn't tend to visit the Owlery very often. Harry and Ron went there at least once every two days, having their own owls to care for.

The darkness meant that Hermione was mostly unaware of what exactly it was she was stepping on as she made her way across the large, roofless room. The crunchy, occasional squelchy feel of the floor made her immensely glad that she already rolled up the hem of her pyjama bottoms.

"Ew," she exclaimed, when she trod on something moist and pulpy.

"You made enough noise coming down the corridor. By all means, please continue," Draco hissed at her.

Damn him. He had practically popped into existence from the shadows. Hermione couldn't help it. She startled audibly, causing a few owls to flap their wings in alarm.

"Shush!" he scolded, looking like he was about to slap his hand over her mouth.

She backed away warily. "That's what happens when you sneak up on people!"

"A bit old to be afraid of the dark, aren't you?" he drawled.

In actual fact, there was more light in the Owlery than there had been outside. Sans ceiling, the moon shone over the circular room. Hermione could by now make out the hundreds of pairs of keen, owl eyes watching them with interest from as many perches.

Every species of owl (and a few daring crossbreeds) was accounted for: barn, snow, scops, tawny, screech and eagle. Being nocturnal creatures, many were coming and going, so there was at least a level of background noise that would allow for close to normal conversation.

She spotted Hedwig immediately. Harry's clever snow owl was preening herself. Something that looked to be (recently) a furry woodland creature, lay in her clawed grasp. No sign of the excitable Pigwidgeon, however, and given the tiny owl's propensity for creating noise and chaos, Hermione was grateful.

"Did you bring treats?"

"Yes," she said, patting the small wad of biscuit looking things in her pocket. They were Lavender's. The packet had been labelled 'mouse and cheese flavoured', with a brand logo that was a disturbing amalgamation of the two.

Draco was dressed in his school robes, which was a little bit odd seeing it was well after their prescribed bedtime. Hermione chalked it down to Slytherins keeping very late hours. That or maybe he didn't like wearing pyjamas when he slept, and…

_And what?_ Her brain urged, with an annoying, mental, "Hmm?" Her imagination was willing to go there, but she shot the hazy image down almost before it came into being.

Now was not the time to be a teenager.

She handed the treats over to Draco and watched as he slipped on a sturdy looking leather gauntlet. Even in the darkness, she was able to make out the deep rips and gouges in the leather. From experience, she knew that Hedwig was quite capable of giving Harry nasty scratches when he handled her.

Draco then performed a soft, three-note whistle and held out his arm. From the topmost perches, roughly three or four 'floors' from where Hedwig rested, Draco's owl took flight.

Hermione had seen the bird before, of course, at breakfast when it delivered mail and the Daily Prophet to Draco. Close up, however, Draco's eagle owl was something else.

It was a very large, very masculine-looking, great horned, eagle owl, with a curved beak that looked sharp enough to punch a neat hole through Draco's hand, gauntlet or no. It was majestic looking, surely, in a scary, predatory sort of way. It was-

"Pete," said Draco, patting the bird's handsome head.

The owl responded with an affectionate, "Hoooot."

Goodness. The bird was a baritone.

Hermione stared. She also took another step back. "You call your owl Pete?"

He was busy patting the owl. "A Familiar needs a name, Granger."

Yes. That was true. Though she had expected at least four syllables and a tribute to some long dead pureblood wizard slash hero slash mythological figure from antiquity.

Draco was looking down his nose at her. He was apparently attempting mind reading. "It's short for 'Pietro', if you must know."

"Hoot," said Pete, in response to his name.

"Don't worry about her," Draco told his Familiar, as he scratched Pete's elegant head. "She'd rather keep a raggedy, bow-legged, old fur ball, than an owl."

Hermione frowned. "Crookshanks is not a raggedy old fur ball. He's quite brilliant."

"But as bandy legged as a Queen Anne dresser," Draco added, almost with teasing, good humour. And then he seemed to remember that they weren't supposed to be having fun in any way, shape or form. This was serious, potentially deadly business. "Give me the letter." He had decided to be rude again.

Hermione was inexplicably glad at the change. She handed the small piece of parchment to him. He held the letter to Borgin under a spot of moonlight, scanned it, and then to her surprise, tore it up into tiny pieces.

"It's pointless for you to use an alias because Borgin will know Pete," he explained. She gave him an exasperated look. "Well did you happen to bring some parchment and a quill to write a new letter?"

"This should do," he declared, taking out his own version of their letter to Borgin. Hermione wanted to tell him if he had went to the trouble of writing his own stupid letter than he really didn't need to be scheduling secret meetings with her in the middle of the night, did he?

So why _was_ she there, then? Hermione gave him a curious look.

"I don't understand why we can't just use a school bird. Something that's not so-" she stared at Draco's Raptorclawed bird, "-stand-outish?"

He was giving her his 'are you thick?' look. Hermione knew it well enough. He was also rather good at, 'I don't have time to explain', 'how very Gryffindor of you' and 'out of my way before I hex you.'

"Pete's as secure as it gets when it comes to Owl Post. He's specifically bred for that. School birds are reliable, but easy targets. They can be shot down, intercepted and lured. Pete won't." There was pride in his voice.

How awful. Hermione couldn't help thinking. She supposed that the easiest way to intercept a message or parcel would be to simply shoot down the courier (ala Professor Sprout's unfortunate delivery macaw). Though she couldn't remember the last time she had heard of an owl coming to such a nasty end. If she could find time in between helping Dumbledore win a war, looking for post-Hogwarts employment, and ending her accidental marriage to Malfoy, Hermione decided that she might just pursue a campaign promoting more humane treatment of all Familiars.

Draco gently attached the missive to Pete's leg via a slim, metallic cuff, and then fed him the Owl Treats. Pete swallowed three in one sitting.

"Safe trip," he whispered before launching the bird into the air.

The owl's wing span was impressive. As was his beauty. He soared in a perfect circle once over the Owlery, before disappearing soundlessly out of sight. They stood there in silence for a moment, listening to the night time sounds and the faint whistle of the wind as it passed over the top of the Owlery

. "What does that mean, 'Rainbow Connection'"? Draco asked her, after tucking away his gauntlet. He trailed a finger along the peeling, rainbow-coloured phrase on her t-shirt, faintly grazing her navel.

Hermione realised she was standing under the same shaft of moonlight he had used to read the letter earlier. He was looking with half-amused puzzlement, at Kermit. The estimable Mr. The Frog was sitting on a lily pad under the aforementioned rainbow.

Hermione was caught completely off guard. How did one explain Kermit the Frog to a wizard? The answer seemed relatively simple. One probably didn't.

"It's a Muggle thing," she ended up saying, feeling odd. Insanity, she decided, was trying to explain the Muppets or Sesame Street to Draco Malfoy, at two-thirty in the morning whilst hiding from a team of ten Aurors who were likely to Petrify them before asking questions.

"And therefore not worthy of elaboration to someone who is not a Muggle?" Draco raised an eyebrow, sounding angry.

"I didn't- no!"

"This is just like that whole Pope thing in the carriage on the way to see my father," he muttered.

She thought she had surely misheard him. "Pope thing?"

"You made a reference to the Pope, and when I asked you what you meant with your sarcastic little dig concerning my father, you assumed I didn't know who the Pope was."

Hermione was incredulous at the turn in conversation. It was almost reminiscent of the arguments she sometimes had with Harry when he was being difficult. But then Harry's comebacks didn't feel like a verbal scourging.

"You don't like being pacified, do you?"

"Genius," he told her, nearly tapping her on the head for emphasis. "Did you work that out on your own?"

She made a frustrated sound. "My God, you really are impossible to get along with."

He folded his arms and stared at her. "Why, have you been trying to get along with me?"

It was a trick question. He excelled at trick questions. And at strategic topic changing. Well, two could play at that. She led ten seconds tick by.

"You know, I'm glad Dumbledore told the school what really happened yesterday."

"Are you?" he asked, his voice flat. He was whispering.

Hermione wondered that she hadn't noticed how close they were standing together. Her heart-rate sped up slightly when he brushed a fluffy white feather from where it was resting on her collarbone. The dragon that was tattooed onto her thigh seemed to be doing some sort of slow, psychic glide up her body. The feeling was much too bizarre to get used to, even after nearly a week of feeling it every now and then.

"If he hadn't said anything, if you hadn't been there yourself to witness what happened, would you have thought I was responsible for sending that Mark into the sky?" There was a question behind his question, and it had something to do with the fact that he was looking at her as if he were a pirate and she were ill-gotten booty.

"No, I know better than to make assumptions," she shot back, faltering slightly on the last word. Damn the darkness, she couldn't make out his expression. He was probably using his 'how very Gryffindor of you' look.

"Gryffindors may make for good martyrs. But they're terrible liars. It shows too much in your eyes."

"I doubt you can see my eyes in the dark, Malfoy."

"Too bad," he responded, and Hermione realised she didn't need to be able to see his face to know that he was smiling. It came through his voice. "Only because they take on a most pleasing shade of umber when you're angry, which seems to happen often enough around me," he added, slightly sheepishly.

Hermione idly wondered what a snowball fight in hell looked like. No doubt that such a thing was now possible, seeing as Draco Malfoy had paid her a compliment.

"We should probably get going," she rushed out, remembering the risk they were taking, and she didn't think this only referred to them meeting outside of curfew. "The Aurors include the Owlery in their rounds."

It took only a moment for Hermione to empty the remaining treats into one of many communal food bowls in middle of the Owlery. A pair of beautiful snow-white owls, not unlike Hedwig, immediately swooped down to inspect the offering.

Draco waited for her, muttering something. Something rude, no doubt, but she didn't hear it. They parted ways at the door. "Do try not to get caught on your way back. I'm not keen on being discovered just because you can't walk a flight of steps in silence."

Hermione supposed that would have to do, by way of a good night and good luck.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen**

Peter Pettigrew was not big fan of nature. The many years he had spent in Animagus form had seen to that. It was a real shame, Peter thought, that the thrill, the sense of wonder and awe, that feeling that you were one step closer to whatever or wherever it was all living this came from tended to wane when you were compelled to live as a rodent for more than a decade.

He had had his fill of living close to the earth, of hiding, scurrying and doing all manner of unattractive yet necessary, rat-like things in order to survive. These days, he liked to walk to get to wherever it was he was going. 'Scurrying' had long become a dirty word.

So he walked whenever possible. It was never a brisk, hurried, walk, but a slow, leisurely stride that to Peter's thinking, was quintessentially human. There were certain aspects of his rat self which had become permanent, however, much to his dismay. There was the slight rounding of his shoulders, the annoying nose-twitch he got whenever he was nervous, and the fact that his nails would never quite lose their yellow tinge or claw-like appearance.

These things he could live with.

What startled him now was the fact that the mere sight of Hogwarts Castle was making him hunch over, twitch like crazy and, to his dismay, _scurry_.

Old habits were hard to break, and it was apparent that school held too many memories. Peter found himself hurtling along the edge of the forest on feet that were much clumsier than those of his ratself. Transformation would have made things smoother, easier on the whole, but he was in a stubborn mood that evening.

He stumbled over a tree root. This was unavoidable seeing as he was travelling in near darkness. He would not use his wand to light the way until he was well and truly beyond any sign of human habitation. Peter's rat senses, always just on the periphery of his usual (and dull in comparison) human sense, rose to the fore. His nose picked up the distant scent of someone's barbequed dinner and his own stomach, not having experienced a decent feed in several days, began to groan in earnest.

The allotted meeting place remained exactly as Peter remembered it from so many years ago. It was a young Rowan, with small clusters of pretty white flowers and red berries that were a shade lighter than old blood. To the uninformed observer, it was a completely normal, innocuous looking member of the forest community.

But Peter was hardly uninformed, and knew the tree to be much more special. The Rowan had been one of Tom Riddle's earliest experiments. The tree was magical, of course. Peter's rat senses could detect that unmistakable taint coming from it, curling in the air like invisible smoke, keeping small, furry, forest inhabitants well away. It wasn't Dark or Light Magic, which had more of a bland, metallic scent to his nose, but a type of cloying, old magic smell that was difficult to describe.

The seed that spawned the tree had been sewn during an auspicious time in Tom Riddle's third year. There had been some Divination involved, plenty of chart consulting and very basic Arithmancy to select the ideal spot in the forest on the ideal day. If the fast-growing sapling had been a Herbology project, Riddle would have come away with full marks and then some.

The project soon turned more sinister, however, when Riddle began to nurture the young tree with regular offerings of his own blood, diligently dripped into the dirt at the base of the tree every so often. There were also charms, layers upon layers of simple but potent charms that had aged like vintage wine over the years.

In a way, the Rowan was as much Riddle's creature as Peter himself was.

It had taken them some real effort to activate the thing after so many years and Voldemort himself could not offer any assurance as to whether it would still work. The tree had been in magical hibernation for over four decades and had nearly sapped the strength of three grown men when their Master had repeated his old, childhood commands. Since then however, the tree had been happily fulfilling its purpose in a secluded, shady spot not two miles from where the castle stood.

So far so sneaky.

Anyone who carried the Dark Mark upon his or her person could linger beneath the welcoming camouflage of the tree's canopy without being discovered. A team of Aurors could walk past in broad daylight and see nothing more untoward than a rather young tree in a forest full of ancients.

The trick, of course, was firstly getting onto Hogwarts grounds undetected. The tree might have been a ten minute walk from the Quidditch pitch, but it was still within patrolling distance for an overenthusiastic Auror.

Having arrived at his destination, Peter finally felt confident enough to set the tip of his wand to a muted flare. He was startled to see that the Recruiter was already there.

The brat, in actual fact, was petting and cooing at the tree. And was it his morbid imagination or was that eerie creaking and wood-groaning noise evidence that the tree was actually leaning toward the child in delighted response?

"You're late, Wormtail," said the youth, whose face was caught in shaft of moonlight.

Peter's heart rate sped up slightly when he took in the very familiar and rather disturbing sight of Harry Potter. His green eyes were eerily illuminated by the yellow flare of Peter's own wand. The messy, black hair was as unruly as ever, the expressive Quidditch-roughened hands that were stroking the trunk of the Rowan as if it were an affectionate horse were a little larger and more robust than Peter last remembered.

"I trust you managed to leave the castle undetected?" Peter asked. There was a protocol for these types of meetings, whether the child liked to remember it or not.

"Considering that I haven't had any problems doing so this past year? Of course I left undetected." There was a note of annoyance there.

Peter's ire immediately spiked. He hated the Potter boy with a passion and generally didn't like to be reminded of this dislike. Also, after so many years spent in the crude custody of various Weasley children and hangars on, he was not particularly fond of teenagers either. Potter, in particular, represented everything that Peter had yearned to be when he was the boy's age. Hate and envy were becoming remarkably comfortable bedfellows, Peter realized.

"The Dark Lord sends his regrets at the unfortunate incident in the forest," Peter repeated the line as per his Master's instructions. The brat snorted. "So he should. Fancy giving me a tainted wand to use! I trust the persons responsible for stealing a marked wand in the first place have been punished? I can't see our Master being forgiving in this instance. To see the Dark Mark sullied by the symbol of the Malfoy cowards…"

"Those responsible have been reprimanded, yes," Peter replied, agreeing that the pair of Death Eaters who had been responsible for the bungled theft had indeed been massive idiots. The two foolish men were prime examples of why new blood was so badly needed within Voldermort's ranks.

They had been charged with the task of securing disused wands by any means necessary. The dingy, Ministry warehouse had seemed like a soft target, to anyone with porridge for brains, that was. It had been a bother that Ollivander had decided to so conveniently go missing. Orphaned wands were notoriously difficult to come by.

Second-hand wands were now governed by such strict regulations that it had seemed easier to simply steal a wand rather than create a possible paper trail. With the new Minister for Magic sanctioning ad-hoc Prior Incantatum, it paid to be overly cautious about what you used your own wand for.

In any case, they had indeed been fortunate that the Aurors had not got much further with wand-marking charms than the Dark Lord himself. What the Aurors _had_ managed to do was ensure that the stolen wand smartly advertised its whereabouts every time a Dark spell was used.

That the wand in question had actually belonged to Lucius Malfoy was irony with a capital 'I'. This fact was not lost on any of them. It was either irony or fate, and the latter was not a word one mentioned in front of Voldemort if one valued the continuing use of one's tongue.

If Malfoy was aware of what had occurred, no doubt the traitor would be rolling with laughter.

So far, their little Recruiter had done very well in covering any inadvertent tracks after the unfortunate Dark Mark incident. There would be no more room for mistakes. Not with only a week left before the current batch of Death Eater candidates were too far away to influence.

"Are we still to proceed as usual then?" asked the brat, who was still wearing Potter's likeness. "I gather that is why our Master has arranged this meeting?"

Peter did not skirt around the issue. "There were concerns about your ability to continue with the plan given the...heightened Auror presence around the castle."

The green eyes narrowed. "That whole business with the Mark transforming into Lucius' damnable dragon has worked to our advantage, Pettigrew. Not only has it had the desired effect on people, but all eyes are firmly fixed on Draco now." The child gave him a cat-like smile. "Half the school still thinks he had something to do with it. The other half pities him."

"A fortunate distraction," Peter began, "but I was still sent to make certain that you remain above suspicion. Our recruitment effort would be severely jeapordised if you were to be compromised." The child grinned. "Why Wormy, I didn't know you cared. Our Master's recruitment effort will run smoothly, I assure you. Tell him not to worry. He has me, after all, and we both know I'm the real prize."

That was partially true. Their side could use a few more monsters-in-the-making like the one standing before Peter.

There was also the fact that Metamorhmagi were _priceless_.

Peter handed the brat a small cloth sack. "Here are the portkeys, as arranged. There are three in total taken from the Ministry." Faced with the child's uneasy look at mention of more Ministry artifacts, Peter was quick to reassure.

"These have been checked thoroughly and then checked again. All the portkeys were found to be completely unmarked."

Now looking pleased, the brat dug further into the bag. "Excellent! I like it when you bring me toys, Wormy."

"They're Death Portals. Suspended in Dragon's blood." He grimaced slightly when the brat made a show of throwing one of the Death Portals in the air, and then catching it.

"I don't need to remind you to take extra care with those!"

The brat merely smirked and then held up to the moonlight, the aforementioned Death Portal. It was a glass ball roughly the size of an orange. Sloshing around within the ball was dark, viscous liquid – Dragon's blood. A silver coin floated inside.

There was a soft sigh of aesthetic appreciation. "Beautiful. We've only ever read about these, of course. To actually hold one in my hand is something else..."

"There is one more thing," Peter added. To his relief, his young companion put the deadly portkey safely back into the sack.

"Yes?"

"Our Master would like a gift, if you can manage it. Your future within the New Order will be further confirmed if you can deliver Lucius's son to us, alive."

Peter was not prepared for the sudden show of fury. "There is nothing, _nothing_ that Draco Malfoy can provide our Master that I cannot! What that traitor's spawn can do, I _can_ and _wil_l do better. Surely our Master doesn't still plan on bringing him to our side!"

"Our Master's purpose is not your concern. Had he chosen to enlighten you, you would know." Peter could not resist adding a dose of smugness. The humiliation he felt over Voldemort entrusting the recruitment to a whelp half Peter's age had been only partially tempered by massive relief.

He envied the child, but only just.

The brat still looked sceptical. "Why not go for Potter? I could get close enough to make an attempt." The face of Harry Potter, with its angular jaw and notable cheekbones seemed to shimmer and ripple, like the surface of a disturbed pond. In its place was the heart-shaped face with heavily lashed, dark eyes and a small, slightly pouting, rose bud mouth.

Peter stared at Hermione Granger, realizing that Potter was not the only one who had done a great deal of growing up in the past two years.

"You will leave Potter alone for now. We have other plans for him."

The child nodded. "I like this new, improved Dark Lord. That whole 'get Potter' obsession was not at all attractive. The world is more than just one boy."

Peter happened to agree wholeheartedly.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen**

_Saturday Morning._

"Are you going to eat that?"

Hermione didn't immediately notice that Ginny was speaking to her until the younger girl touched her lightly on the arm. "Are you feeling alright?"

_Good question_, thought Hermione. "Sorry, Ginny. I was miles away."

Ginny smiled kindly. "You're not the only one. Have a look around the Hall. Everyone's sort of poking at their breakfast."

This was true. Most students looked about as stirred as cold porridge. Though certain senior members of Hufflepuff were looking under the weather precisely because they had stayed up until four in the morning to attend an illicit Common Room party.

Such events were strictly prohibited without the Head of House's permission, but Blaise and Hermione had let the incident slide because Ernie Macmillan had promised to keep a prefect-ly eye on things. Apart from a broken study chair and a fourth year boy treated for sprouting a raccoon's tail, the students had been well behaved.

"When did we start having pancakes for breakfast on a non-celebration weekend?" Ginny pondered.

"Since never," Hermione said, lamenting that she couldn't enjoy her food. She usually loved pancakes. "Must be a special treat for end of year doldrums," She slide her plate over to Ginny and watched with amusement as the other girl made quick work of the stack.

"Sure you don't want this?" Ginny asked.

Hermione shook her head. "Help yourself. I think my eyes were hungrier than my stomach this morning, to be honest."

It could be that she was coming down with the flu. There was a bug going around the castle. Ron had already started with the sniffles, while Ginny was recovering from a sore throat. What with coughs, colds and the impending end of a school year that shaped out to be worrying but dull, the mood around the castle was ambiguous.

A third of Hogwarts' students had already gone home, though not because of the flu. Some parents, magical folk, especially, could not see the point in keeping their children away from home during such uncertain times. It had been like that since their fifth year. Others, meanwhile, were content to leave their children within the safety of Hogwarts for as long as possible, wisely recognising that school was probably the safest place for them to be while Albus Dumbledore resided as Headmaster.

Hermione glanced down along the Gryffindor table. As usual, Parvati and her Ravenclaw twin were already gone. Lavender was noticeably dour as she yawned over the latest copy of Witch Weekly. Additionally from seventh year, there was Seamus, Dean, Neville, Ron, Harry and herself. Harry-Seamus relations never quite recovered from the events of fifth year, but at least these days the boys made an effort at civility for Ginny's sake. The latter had flat out refused to even consider Seamus's advances until he agreed to bury the hatchet with Harry. Much to Ron's dismay, Seamus had just done that.

Ron generally did not approve of any of Ginny's suitors, having the opinion that most men, him included, were perverted scum.

Further along the table sat Luna, who was once again sitting with the Gryffindors. She was engrossed in animated conversation with a slightly worried looking Neville. Hermione was vaguely able to make out the phrases, 'only when it's dark, though' and 'never on a full stomach'.

God bless Luna, thought Hermione, with a small smile. The girl had never stopped inquiring about potential DA meetings, even though the group had been on indefinite hiatus.

In fact, it felt like a lot of things had been on indefinite hiatus since fifth year.

The monthly Order meetings held at Grimmauld Place had been put on hold that month. With Dumbledore's reinstatement to the Wizengamot and various other Ministry meetings hastened by Arthur Weasley, the Headmaster was a very busy man. He was away that morning, likewise Professor Lupin, though the school knew this to be because Thursday evening had been the start of a full moon.

"I know you're thinking what I'm thinking," Ron whispered to Hermione, in between mouthfuls of pancake. The pair was sitting across from each other.

"Hmm," Hermione replied. Once she was satisfied that Harry was occupied regaling Ginny with Quidditch highlights from the past year, she said, "But we're not going to say it, Ronald. Thinking it is bad enough."

"Harry'd be wondering about it too, I bet," Ron insisted. His eyebrows knitted together in a deep frown. "Didn't you notice how even the teachers panicked when the Dark Mark got shot over the Forest? I can tell you what I was thinking; that whatever nastiness Voldemort's been planning, that it finally came. This year will be the first year since we started at Hogwarts that Harry hasn't had to...well, you know."

"Battle the forces of wizarding evil?" Hermione deadpanned.

"Yeah."

"That's a good thing, Ron." She watched him pour more syrup over the pancake fort that was his breakfast.

"Boring and uneventful happens to be just how I like it. It means I don't have to worry about you lot. Harry deserves a bit of peace and quiet and I'm certain Dumbledore wouldn't begrudge him that."

"In any case, I reckon today's going to be interesting," Ron commented now, looking over Hermione's shoulder.

"Why do you say that?"

He nodded towards the Slytherin table. "Have a look for yourself. Malfoy's coming over."

So he was. He was walking towards them, towards her, in full view of everyone. What was he playing at? She might have turned her undivided attention to her breakfast, only she had given it to Ginny.

"Hullo," said Draco, in a genial, pleasant manner which made Hermione immediately suspicious. He stood behind her, his attention fixed on Harry. "Potter, I was wondering if I might have a word."

Something was definitely up. It was then that Hermione noticed the Ravenclaw Quidditch Captain, Lisa Turpin and Hufflepuff Captain, Zacharias Smith, at the entrance of the Hall. Both were looking expectantly in Harry's direction. Both were looking excited.

Draco sat down. Harry obviously thought this a very odd thing for Draco to do. His hand froze in the task of brining a spoonful of his breakfast to his mouth.

"It is customary in these situations," Draco explained, drumming his fingers on his forearms, "to either say yes, what is it Malfoy, or tell me to bugger off."

"Fugger boff, Malfoy," Harry obliged, his mouth full of pancake.

Undeterred, Draco gave Hermione a brief, sideways glance while ostensibly waiting for Harry to finish his mouthful of food. "Granger you're looking especially feral this morning. Hairbrush on strike again?"

"Is it too early in the day to hex someone, do you think?" Ginny interrupted, to no one in particular. She had paused in the act of stirring her coffee to roll her wand in her hands.

"Ah, Little Weasley," Draco leered at her. "You on the other hand, are looking rather fit. I must say my team has been enjoying your morning jogs around the pitch. It's the only reason the lazy sods are willing to get up at seven am on a weekend, you know."

Ron went predictably red in the face. This was exactly the sort of perverted scum-like behaviour he often warned Ginny about. "Malfoy, stop staring at my sister and I'll smash your face in."

"You mean _before_ you smash my face in," Draco corrected helpfully.

"Nuh, I meant exactly what I said," Ron offered.

Hermione rolled her eyes. As was usually the case with Malfoy, things were getting out of hand. Other students were already staring. "Ron, shut up. Malfoy, if you have something to say to Harry, spit it out. And in answer to your question Ginny, no, I don't believe it is ever too early in the day to hex someone if they soundly deserve it."

Draco gave them all a bland smile. "I'm here to ask Potter if he and his team of Quidditch berks would be interested in participating in a friendly match."

"Against whom?" Harry asked, curious enough to ignore the berk comment. "The season is over."

"The visiting Aurors," Draco replied, looking genuinely pleased at the prospect. The rest of the table that was within eavesdropping distance immediately erupted into excited whispers. "Turpin and Smith were told this morning. Hooch says we can get a casual game organised for Wednesday afternoon if all the captains agree by today." Draco examined the slightly syrup-sticky state of the table with a slight grimace and promptly peeled his elbows from its surface. "Apparently, these last few days of school have become so depressing that the faculty have decided that students require a bit of light entertainment…"

"No arguments there," Neville chipped in.

Draco casually glanced down the table to where Neville sat, staring at him as if he were a new Flobberworm that had just only appeared out of the muck of Flobberworms that was the rest of Gryffindor table.

"We're meeting in Hooch's office after breakfast," Draco told Harry. "Bring names."

He got up to leave, making a show of dusting the front of his robes off, but not before he deposited something small, round and light into Hermione's lap.

She was so startled by this that she nearly dropped her tea cup.

Fortunately, the rest of the table were too occupied with the news of an impending Quidditch game against an Auror team, no less, to notice that Draco had successfully passed Hermione yet another note right under everyone's noses.

**

Friendly and Quidditch didn't really belong in the same sentence.

The four Quidditch Captains that were gathered in Madam Hooch's musty office after breakfast were well aware of this fact. The match was more entertainment than competition, but given that each of the players on the Auror Team had at one time or another been Hogwarts players themselves, the rest of the school was rightly expecting a clash of egos.

"This is so exciting!" Lisa Turpin said.

It was exciting. And _fun_. Draco realised that lately, he'd almost forgotten the meaning of these words.

Turpin and Smith were consulting the list of Auror players that Madam Hooch was passing around with great seriousness.

"It says here that Henry Williamson is a Beater. My sister still tells us stories about how he never failed to break a Keeper's nose at least once a year..." Turpin informed them, sounding apprehensive.

Smith looked disgruntled. "Both my Keeper _and_ our reserve Keeper are away."

Madam Hooch had deemed all Hogwarts players and reserves deserving of a fair chance of playing in the match. Names were to be drawn from a hat. In theory, with reserves included, there would be three candidates for every position on the Hogwarts team. In reality however, more than a few players had already gone home.

"Lisa, am I right to assume that Beth Pennywise is too ill to put her name down for Chaser?" asked Hooch.

Turpin nodded. "She's so depressed about it, but Madam Pomfrey has insisted on a weekend of bed rest."

Goyle too, was also unable to play. His broken leg was coming along nicely, but it would not be up to scratch in time for the game, four days hence.

"Alright, then," Hooch sighed. "We seem to be dropping like flies…now if the four of you will add your names into the hat, we shall draw positions shortly."

It so happened that Smith was a Chaser, and Turpin a Beater. Both Draco and Harry, meanwhile, played the same position.

"We only need one Seeker for the match," Turpin said, sensing impending doom.

"Thank you Lisa, after six years of playing Quidditch and two years of being captain, and being completely insane about the sport since the age of three, I'd somehow forgotten that fact," Draco airily remarked.

Turpin narrowed her eyes and muttered something derogatory under her breath. Harry snorted his approval. However, he wasn't to know that there was no real animosity between the pair, given that Draco had very briefly dallied with the formidable Turpin earlier in the year.

Despite her House of origin, Draco had found her to be as intellectually stimulating as a sack of rolled oats, but had to admit that she was probably one of the most physically inventive girls he had ever dated.

For a brief moment, Draco's attention, which was usually super-keen when Quidditch was concerned, drifted. This was until Harry started complaining about something. As this was always entertaining, Draco reluctantly tuned back into the conversation.

"Madam Hooch, no. _Please_ don't say it."

Hooch was looking very sympathetic. "I'm sorry Harry, but you've been barred from playing."

"WHAT!" Harry bellowed.

"Say it, don't spray it..." Turpin muttered, dabbing at her face with the back of her hand.

"By whom?" Draco asked Hooch, equally intrigued.

"Professor Snape suggested it. I'm afraid the Headmaster agrees."

Harry began pacing about the small office. "I can't believe this! Do you have any idea how dull it's been lately? This game is going to be nothing short of brilliant, and I'm not allowed to play! If there's any danger, it's all in Snape's imagination."

"_Professor_ Snape," Draco corrected, looking like his day had just been made.

"Er," Smith interjected. "Harry, there was that whole thing with Lucius Malfoy's wand in the forest. Professor Dumbledore said that the wand was most likely stolen by Death Eaters, and who knows for what sinister reasons."

"Yes, but _I'm_ not in any danger!" Harry told Zacharias, looking slightly maniacal. "For me, this entire year has been event free, if anything!"

Draco happened to be in agreement. "Madam Hooch, not that I'm complaining, but if you're worried about Potter getting shot down out of the sky, are the rest of us expendable or something?"

"Yeah!" said Harry, now turning his frustration to Draco. "You are a hell of a lot easier to spot in the air, Malfoy. You're like some big, blond, annoying..." he thought hard for a comparison. "Pigeon! That can't even fly straight."

Draco scowled. It might have been a little-known fact, but one of the easiest ways to prick his temper was to insult his Quidditch abilities. His eyes darkened to slate.

"If anyone's a ruddy pigeon, it's _you_, Potter."

Harry sneered in a rather frightening, Snape-like manner. "Oh, good comeback, Malfoy."

"Oh like the 'pigeon' insult was genius to begin with?" Draco spat.

"Boys, please!" Madam Hooch appealed for reason. "This is hardly constructive."

Harry wasn't through stating his case. "Seriously though, it wasn't my family's snake thing doing twisty, nasty acts with the Dark Mark. If anyone should be barred, it's him!"

A muscle started twitching in Draco's jaw. "That's _dragon_, not 'snake thing', you uninformed twat. And did you somehow miss Dumbledore's big announcement on Wednesday? The part about that whole incident NOT BEING MY BLEEDING FAULT!"

If the discussion wasn't about something as serious as Quidditch, it might have been an amusing sight to witness Madam Hooch rolling up the player list she was holding and smacking Draco on the arm with it. It made a distractingly loud noise. "Mr Malfoy! Fifteen points for your language!"

"_Just fuck off and die already_,," Harry hissed at Draco, in Parseltongue. The effect it had on the room was immediate. Turpin and Smith looked uncomfortable. Madam Hooch, meanwhile, was livid. Having no idea what Harry had just said, but able to make an educated guess.

"You first, Scarhead," Draco spat back in Gobbledeegook, which, given that it sounded like a lot of comical gibberish, did not have quite the same sinister effect.

"And fifteen points from Gryffindor as well, Mr. Potter," Madam Hooch scolded, giving both boys a look of extreme disappointment. She allowed much for her Quidditch captains, but drew the line at foul language when it was uttered away from the heat of a game.

"It will be twenty points apiece, in a minute, if I don't hear an apology for your respective behaviours. Honestly, after seven years, you'd think the two of you would at least _pretend_ to get along."

Harry looked like he would rather chew on broken glass, though he managed to mutter, "Sorry."

"My apologies, Madam Hooch," Draco followed, sounding just as unrepentant.

Turpin was looking impatient at the lack of progress of the meeting. "Can't we just draw for Seeker now and settle this, Madam Hooch? Harry's got a one in seven chance of being selected for this game, doesn't he?" she asked. "Let's just pick a name and see what we get?"

Madam Hooch was flustered enough to agree. With a fortifying breath, she reached into the old bowler hat and drew out a name.

"Our Seeker is-" The four captains waited as she unfolded the bit of paper. The expression on her face as she read the name could best be described as 'long suffering'.

"Draco Malfoy."

Being a gracious winner was never the hallmark of a model Slytherin, as was brilliantly exhibited by Draco's enormous sigh of satisfaction


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen.**

Draco Malfoy was a very strange boy. It would appear that he had given her a walnut.

In the quiet of her Advanced Runes class, Hermione sat at her desk and stared incredulously at the nut until she realized - feeling quite silly when she did - that it was a transfigured letter.

_Well, duh, Granger_, she could well imagine Draco saying, rolling his eyes.

Professor Flores had given her seventh year Gryffindor and Slytherin class the latest quiz from Monthly Runes Companion to occupy their time. Hermione rushed through the set, pleased to be able to decipher the series of symbols in half a period.

Checking to see that the rest of the class was still absorbed in the task, she carefully placed the walnut in her lap, and transformed it back to its original state.

The letter from Malfoy, read thus:

_Pete returned early this morning with a reply from our Contact. It was apparently raining in London. Stupid bird did not appreciate the foul weather and nipped YEOH's finger. Thankfully for Pete, No blood was drawn, but wound stings most terribly in shower._ YEOH? Frowning, Hermione re-read the line to make sure that she had it right. Who or what on earth was 'YEOH'?

_Our Contact has requested a meeting in London next Saturday and will be locating an expert to see to our little problem. An expensive expert, no doubt. Fear not. I'll bring the money._

The condescending ass, did he really think she was that much of a pauper?

_Will contact you again closer to the date. _

_Sincerely,_

_Your Ever Obedient Husband._

Her lips twitched with amusement. So that was it, then - 'Y.E.O.H'.

There was also a postscript at the end.

_P. S. _

_Weasley's been looking at your chest again._

Hermione had to suppress a smile. The chest staring thing was nothing new. Lately, Ron did seem more interested in having conversations with girls' breasts rather than with girls themselves. But Hermione figured this was perfectly normal behaviour for seventeen year old boys.

Normality was good. It was re-assuring.

Malfoy, on the other hand was _not_ a normal boy. He was downright bizarre on occasion. However, it was still slightly embarrassing to know that even he was capable of noticing Ron's continual faux pars. She really ought to have a discreet word with her friend.

Blaise, who was sitting at the desk in front of Hermione, turned around in his chair. He regarded her with a thoughtful expression. "Have you solved it yet?" he asked. His desk was a mess of scribbles on paper, though his rune dictionary was still in his bag. Like Hermione, he didn't like to resort to using it unless he was desperate.

"Yes." She knew better than to offer assistance. Blaise never any accepted help, and frankly, didn't need it. "I hate Elder Futhark," he complained. "The cryptic riddles drive me insane."

"I like the riddles," Hermione shrugged. She had never made a point of apologizing for her intellect, and wasn't about to start now.

Blaise snorted. "You like questions, Granger. You're game for anything with a question mark stuck to the end of it."

That was certainly an interesting observation. Particularly since it made Hermione immediately think of Malfoy again. It was just that she really didn't 'get' him sometimes. Take his latest note to her, for example. Malfoy had showed that he was quite capable of being as vicious and cunning as they all assumed him to be. But then there was that intelligence, an arrogance that could be as charming as it was destructive and an enviable, well developed sense of humour that was undeniably the biggest surprise of all.

That didn't make him a good person, though, Hermione reminded herself. Nor did it redeem his past wrongs, not in the slightest.

**

The Slytherin Common room was abuzz that Saturday evening, and not just because a pair of conspiring first years had managed to sneak in a can of Wheezes Fabulous Fudge Flies into the lounge. News of the friendly Quidditch Match had been very well received by the rest of the school.

Friendly wagers were already being made as to the likely winner, likely score, level of injuries and number of fouls. As it was, a fourth year Ravenclaw had laid down a record-breaking sixty galleons on a victory for the home side.

Draco was seated on the carpet by the fireplace with his legs crossed and his head hidden behind a copy of the Daily Prophet. Dragon's blood was up in price again following a daring theft of a shipment from Hungary. He was having trouble paying attention to the rest of the financial news on page twenty-three because Pansy kept tapping him on the leg, requesting that he re-tell what the others were now calling the 'Public Castration of Harry Potter'.

The younger students gathered around, occasionally adding their two-Knuts. The only two Slytherins not entirely occupied with Quidditch talk were Blaise and a sullen-looking Goyle, who had expressed his disgust at being too unfit to put his name down for the match. The pair was secluded in a far corner and was deep in conversation.

"Castration's a bit harsh, isn't it?" Carmen Meliflua was saying. "More like Potter's had his wings clipped." Dodders, a small, bug-eyed, third year boy, was quick to comment. He was also rapidly making his way through a tin of biscuits. "Still, being benched for a game like this…I mean they let him and everyone else play Quidditch when that Chamber of Secrets business happened a few years back."

"How would you know about what happened, Tadpole?" Carmen asked him icily. She generally wasn't fond of any persons shorter than herself. There was also the fact that Tandish Dodders had unfortunately been earmarked for bullying by Draco since the boy's first week at Hogwarts. Dodders had confronted Draco the year before, determined to get to the bottom of why the older boy disliked him so much.

Draco, in characteristic Draco-fashion had informed him, "Because you bear an uncanny resemblance to frogspawn."

It had taken less than a day for the nickname 'tadpole' to stick.

"My name," Dodders shouted at Carmen, sending a stream of moist cookies crumbs raining over Draco and his newspaper, "IS TANDISH!"

Draco looked up from his paper distractedly. "My God, Tadpole, if you shower me with crumbs once more, I'm going to pick you up, turn you over and stick your head in the nearest toilet."

What happened next took everyone by surprise, Dodders most of all, no doubt. The boy blinked before slowly rising to his feet. He had already been snapped at by Draco once that week in the Great Hall and after three years of abuse, had apparently reached the end of his tether.

He pointed a chubby digit at Draco. "You don't scare me, Malfoy. Not anymore. I don't care who you are. You're not even a prefect for much longer, so why don't you just piss off and leave the rest of us in peace!" With an expression of great dignity, he brushed past a gawking Carmen and disappeared into the boys' dormitory.

"Well," Carmen declared, after the door to the dorm slammed shut. "_His_ days are certainly numbered."

The silence in the Common Room was so pronounced that it was quite possible to hear the very distant noise of Hufflepuffs preparing for bed a few floors above.

Draco folded his paper and wondered what the hell had just happened. A third year student that was no longer afraid of him? Surely such a thing was not possible?

Growing up in Slytherin was a lot like growing up with a pack of wolves. The Alpha male dictated what was good, bad, acceptable and unacceptable. Any Slytherin that was worth his salt knew the rules. For Draco, his family money had helped earn his status, his looks were always a bonus, his wit had been vital. But it had been his last name which secured him the position of head of the pack.

With Lucius now as awe-inspiring as a mismatched pair of socks, any sign of weakness would be seen as an excuse for some young, ambitious, pup to run him through with a hot poker and climb over his cold, gorgeous, corpse.

Such a thing had very nearly happened when Lucius had been imprisoned.

It had taken him months to recover his standing. Strategic viciousness in the form of Crabbe and Goyle, had helped, of course. As had Pansy Parkinson. Pansy knew every little bit of gossip about everyone. She knew that Blaise's father was keen on lads not much older than Blaise himself; knew that Elena Longerbridge in fifth year had a sixth toe on her right foot (which was why she never wore open-toed shoes, not even in summer); was well aware that the now graduated Alex Montague had a corrupt bureaucrat grandfather who was being blackmailed by everyone who had a stake in the man's department.

It was Pansy who put an end to the silence that evening. Her voice was tense when she spoke. "The lot of you, off to bed. _Now_."

"What? Even me?" Blaise asked. He was sitting with Goyle in the far corner.

"Yes, you too, Head Boy," Pansy ordered, more imploringly this time. "You need your beauty sleep."

They shuffled off, curious but compliant. When the last student had shut the door behind him, Pansy sat down on the floor beside Draco.

He was looking distinctly discombobulated.

"What's the matter with you?" she snapped. "If Dodders had said that to you a month ago, you'd have fed him his shoes."

Draco drew his knees up and rested his forehead against them. The find, blond strands of his hair looked shiny against the black wool of his school pants. His voice was muffled when he spoke. "I'm just tired, Pansy. It's old age. I'm not fifteen anymore, you know. I'm going on eighteen, which is nearly twenty. By twenty-one, I imagine I'll be over the hill and jowl-y"

"Oh, shut up," she said, annoyed. "Is there something going on lately that you're not telling me about?"

Draco discovered that he was seriously tempted to unload.

_Yeah, there are a few things going on, actually. Where shall I begin? My father's slowly going insane at our enormous, rotting, mansion and I think he's in real danger of going completely mental. Any day now I expect to hear news along the lines of how he attempted to do away with our remaining, elderly, house elf, utilizing an ingenious plan involving escargot tongs and a ball of string. In addition, it would appear that there is a crazy, spell-happy, Voldemort supporter loose somewhere near Hogwarts, determined to recruit a new generation of massive idiots before the year's end. Because of this, the Ministry wants me to spy on my own friends in exchange for allowing me to get my hands on what should be mine by birthright. Oh, and if that doesn't curdle your milk, Pansy dear, I married and shagged Hermione Granger last weekend and now the girl is quite literally under my skin, though lately I've been wishing she were in my pants instead. Yes, Pansy! I am the victim of magic, luck and hormones most foul! I can't stop thinking about that puffy-haired harpy. I want to speak to her, touch her, stare at the freckles on her nose when they come out under the sun. I want to pet her stupid cat, I want to make her smile, blush, watch her push soggy pancake around her plate..._ "

There's nothing going on," Draco replied, in a voice that had gone slightly thick. Pansy narrowed her blue eyes at him.

She proceeded to run her hand through her perfectly maintained bob. When it came to Pansy, this was what passed for frustration. "Fine, keep your secrets, Malfoy. You know I'll find out in the end, one way or another."

Draco snorted. "Yes. Tell me something I _don'_t know." He crawled over to a nearby chesterfield, pulled off his school tie, stretched out across the leather and covered his face with his newspaper. The front page story was about a burst water pipe at a Diagon Alley magical menagerie. The harried looking business owner was busy ferrying ferrets, bandicoots, a boa constrictor and a shoulder load of owls out of the flooded shop.

"Ok. I've only been madly in love with you since second year," was Pansy's casual response.

This time, the silence lasted a good, two minutes, at the end of which, Draco announced, "Well, fuck…

" Pansy rolled her eyes. "Good thing I wasn't expecting flowery declarations…"

"You don't want me, Pansy. I'll cheat on you. I'll be mean and nasty and you'll hate me forever." She did not seem surprised or flustered by any of this. "I know. Only because you don't love me back. Not that way."

"You and I, we're not bred for that sort of thing. People like us join into contracts, not vows of everlasting love. I adore you, but I'd stomp all over your greedy little heart," he told her.

She raised her chin. Draco could not help but notice that her nose looked even briefer when she did that. "Who says I'm greedy?"

He raised an elegant blond eyebrow in response.

"_Fine_," Pansy sniffed.

"I've got nothing to offer anyone right now," he added, earnestly. "We were at a disadvantage the moment our fathers became Death Eaters. If we have children, they wouldn't know any other life apart from one where people will be suspicious and afraid and distrusting. He failed us, Pansy, Voldemort failed us the moment he fucked up his own, grand vision. He's a lost cause. I consider myself lucky to have realized this before I end up like my father...banished, crazy and yet still managing to look deadly sexy in a silk dressing gown." There was a quizzical note to Draco's voice.

"Yes, but _you_ still have your lands and your title coming to you eventually!" Pansy insisted. "My family, on the other hand, has lost nearly everything that was worth something to us. We're living on a rented estate, for Merlin's sake! The Parkinsons are pariahs. I have nothing left to lose except you, Draco, and really-" she knelt beside him so that he would look at her "-I never had you in the first place."

"Pansy..."

She cut him off with a raised hand. "I'm not propositioning you. I'm just not one for change. I liked life the way it was when we first came here. I liked having pretty things and money and a family history that meant something to the rest of our world. I liked you the way you were.

Draco gave her an exasperated look. "Don't be ridiculous. I'm still the same person."

"Will Tandish Dodders attest to that?" she countered tartly.

"You can't possibly want me to be the enormous tosser I was when I first got here! I've improved with age, I tell you. In any case, I can't turn back time!"

"No, you can't," she agreed. She smiled gaily, kissed him on the cheek and rose to her feet, which in Pansy terms meant that she was through discussing something. "I'm so looking forward to the game on Wednesday. Make sure you catch that Snitch, Draco. I detest Aurors and nothing would please me more in this last week of school, than seeing those Ministry goons walk away from the pitch as the match losers."

Draco watched, more than a little baffled, as Pansy picked up her book bag and and left for her room. His silver eyes were as dark as the rain clouds that had been plaguing the Scottish countryside that week. For the first time since the meeting in Dumbledore's office on Wednesday, he felt the weight of his bargain with Arthur Weasley bearing down heavily upon him.

"Anything for the girl who loves me," he muttered, suddenly feeling more alone than he had ever felt in his young life.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen**

_Wednesday_

Ginny Weasley was convinced that no legal system in the world – whether Muggle or Magic – could possibly hold her accountable for hitting Draco Malfoy over the head with something large and heavy.

He was just _that_ infuriating.

That afternoon constituted the most time she had ever spent in his presence. His Blondness (as Ron had started calling him, among other things) had appointed himself the role of Captain of the Hogwarts side.

Granted, he was the only of them who actually was a Quidditch Captain for his own House, this did not, however, give him carte blanche to refer to Hufflepuff Beater, Horace Sommerby, as 'a giant, flying wombat who couldn't tell east from west if he were strapped onto the needle of a massive compass'.

And this was just in the first ten minutes of practice.

The teachers had given the players the afternoon off to meet up and strategize. The Auror team was not awarded any such luxury because they were on duty until the shift change just before the match. This arrangement did not appear to bother the unflappable 'Team Auror'. They looked nonplussed, not even when small, excitable first years ran up to them to ask for autographs. Tonks apparently found all this very amusing and teased her colleagues to no end.

The rest of the school, unfortunately, still had to attend their classes. Everyone was hot, sweaty and prone to staring out classroom windows for long periods. This was especially the case for Harry. He parked himself next to a window in Transfiguration and made no attempt whatsoever to pay attention to Professor McGonagall's advice as to how best to proceed with an academic career in the subject (Hermione had asked).

Though to be fair, the Gryffindor Head of House, too, seemed slightly preoccupied with what was happening outside. She only snapped at Harry once, and even then everyone could tell that her heart wasn't really in it.

Before practice, the hallowed 'Hogwarts Team', had sat in the locker rooms to seriously discuss what they would do. Ginny had brought sun cream and a banana because she figured she'd be missing lunch that day.

Malfoy had come armed with a small blackboard, chalk, a playbook of Quidditch manoeuvres and a pair of dragonhide Quidditch trousers that had seen better days. The pants were snug and worn and had an uncanny ability to make Slytherin Chaser Sharon Pucey stare at her shoes every time Malfoy's wild gesticulating at the blackboard brought the aforementioned trousers within inches of her face.

The tension was eased somewhat once the team were out on the pitch, in the fresh air, and on their brooms. Ron, who was nearly beside himself with anxiety at being the selected Keeper, had nearly come to blows with Malfoy when the decision had to be made regarding their _main_ strategy.

Diplomacy eventually triumphed and the team agreed that the Auror side were probably expecting a defensive game from the Hogwarts players, which was exactly why they would be going on the offence from the moment the whistle blew.

Sharon Pucey led the Beaters and Ron through a common toss-and-dodge drill, while Ginny and Malfoy hovered at the edge of the pitch for a breather.

"How long will we be playing a purely offensive game?" Ginny asked. She had to wait for Malfoy to finish shouting at Ravenclaw's Anne Takamara, reminding her why women did not usually make good Beaters.

In response, Anne, who was easily twice as large as Malfoy, sent a Bludger whizzing past his ear.

He ignored this obvious attempt on his life and parked alongside Ginny.

"As your brother so helpfully suggested, they'll be expecting us to be intimidated, which is exactly the impression we're going to give them," Draco explained. "It's a friendly match, so they're probably going to be gentle with us at the beginning. By the time they catch on, hopefully, we'll have scored a goal or two. They'll soon see why Hogwarts holds the European record for most number of Quidditch-related, school injuries on the continent."

"Do we really hold that record?" Ron asked. He had a curious habit of materializing out of thin air every time Malfoy so much as muttered to Ginny.

Draco smiled a scary smile. "We beat Durmstrang by six crushed noses, two fractured femurs and Goyle's broken leg."

"Ouch," Ginny screwed up her face. "I'm not sure whether to be proud or horrified."

Malfoy had brought his right foot up onto his broom to tighten the laces on his Quidditch boots, all the while maintaining perfect balance. There was a delicate flush to his cheeks from his practice session. His hair was slicked back and tucked behind his ears.

Overhead, the sky was overcast and it seemed that the shadow and movement of the clouds were reflected in his clear, grey eyes.

He flew a lot like Harry, Ginny noted, which made sense given that both boys were Seekers and were similarly built. The difference was that Harry tended to play with his heart, using instinct to pull off some of his more spectacular moves. Malfoy played with his head. He was cool and calculated about things.

Twice, during practice, he had dived for the Snitch only to pull up halfway when he assessed that there would no chance of catching up with his tiny, golden prey without crashing into the pitch. Harry would have gone for it. To hell with the broken shoulder or collarbone that may have awaited him at the end of his plummet.

"Nice," Ron suddenly said. He blew an appreciative whistle as he pointed at the rings. Sharon Pucey was practicing a mighty hurl which was sending the Quaffle spinning into the middle ring on a slight arc.

"Ugandan Spinning Hurl," Ron correctly identified. It was something Keepers made a point to know about. "No denying Slytherin does it well. I'm going to see if I can catch that." He sprinted over to Sharon and requested a quick catch session.

"I don't recall that move working very well when your team went against us last time, Malfoy," Ginny added, rather smugly. Malfoy apparently brought out the worst in her. She wondered if he had the same effect on everyone.

The look Malfoy gave her was one part leer, two parts amused. "That's because Potter cheated."

"Harry did _not_ cheat!"

"Oh, yes, he did," Draco replied. "I imagine you'd be all shocked and stunned if he told you that the only reason Sharon's usually superb aim was off on that particular day was because Potter jabbed her in the ribs with his bloody broom handle just before she released the Quaffle. And I'm not talking about the kind of jab that Sharon, bless her depraved heart, would have preferred."

"Oh, shut up, Malfoy. That was an accident."

"Yes, and I'm a virgin."

Ginny coloured slightly. "You make it sound like you don't make mistakes on the pitch." She saw that Malfoy was now watching Ron do a rather impressive backward flip in order to catch Sharon's toss.

"On the contrary, Little Weasley, I make mistakes all the time."

"Such as?" Ginny prompted.

Draco regarded her with mild suspicion. "Given that you Gryffindors have already won the blasted Quidditch cup this year, I suppose it's safe to tell you that I generally won't catch the Snitch when I'm chasing it on my left."

Ginny's eyes narrowed. "Don't be daft. I'm sure I've seen you do just that."

Draco smiled somewhat enigmatically. "What you've seen, Little Weasley, is me rolling to the left and catching the Snitch with my right hand." He demonstrated for her.

"Why can't you catch on your left?" Ginny asked. She had to admit he had done a spectacular job of covering up what ought to have been a major handicap. The other teams would have paid a tidy sum for that little bit of information.

He was still watching the practice when he answered her. "Because I've dislocated my left shoulder about sixteen times."

Ginny grimaced. "That's awful! How?"

"My first girlfriend was half-giant," Draco informed, in a sombre tone. "Just like Hagrid. It was love at first dislocation, really."

"Very funny," Ginny folded her arms. "Seriously though, it can't be a normal problem or Madam Pomfrey would have managed to fix it ages ago."

"I'm not telling you how, Little Weasley," he leaned in closer for emphasis and Ginny noted with annoyance that his skin looked just as fine close up, as it did from a distance. "You only got that first bit out of me because you're much nicer to look at than your brother, the Great Orange Ape."

Ginny sighed. She might have been less annoyed with him if he was making a genuine attempt to flirt with her. That, at least would have been flattering. She was used to boys becoming somewhat distracted around her. Instead, Malfoy seemed to be making a token effort at merely goading her. His attention was firmly on the upcoming match, which was a good thing.

. Over at the hoops, Sharon Pucey was now trying to get Draco's attention. She was pointing down at the ground. "I think you've got a visitor!"

Draco glanced at the ground to find Carmen Meliflua waving up at him. By then, the rest of the school had already been dismissed for class and were rapidly filling up the stands. Carmen was holding a notebook and was nearly jumping up and down on the spot with eagerness. Draco had assigned her and Pansy to dig up dirt on the opposing team via the tried and tested method of brown nosing.

"Just in time," said Draco.

He rounded up the rest of the team and assembled them in the locker rooms. They had less than fifteen minutes to get dressed and ready. Ron assumed that Draco had sent the girl to fetch a top-secret set of Quidditch notes.

Draco was quickly flipping through said notes. "We've got some excellent material here which might just come in handy…"

Ron soon discovered that he was partially correct.

"Apparently this Huggins woman has been holding a torch for one of your older brothers, Weasley. Yes, I know there's no accounting for taste, but should you find her attempting to get a Quaffle past you, I don't know…"

Draco thought for a moment, "wink or something, would you? Don't do it on her first attempt, though, or she'll be wise to you." Draco nodded, looking satisfied with the tip.

There was a brief moment of silence during which Ron's mouth hung open slightly.

"And try not to look so confused all the time. It makes you look simple," Draco added, impatiently.

Ginny and Anne Takamara had to restrain Ron from lunging at Malfoy, for all that Malfoy seemed not to notice.

His Blondness was in full Captain-mode.

"Now, a chap called Rufus Quartermaine is their Keeper. You might remember him from main entrance checkpoint duties on the ground floor last week. Not the brightest spark, this fellow. One of our second years managed to get a bag of dung drops past him by telling him they were fertilizer pellets..."

Sharon sniggered. "Ah. Isn't he the one that had that accident in the Restricted Section only yesterday?"

Draco nodded. "According to our dear Carmen, Mr. Quartermaine managed to get his right hand bitten by a copy of Hagrid's Book of Monsters."

"Is that thing _still_ there?" Ginny asked. "It's only been evading capture since my second year."

"Well technically, it got caught by a Hufflepuff senior on a dare last year," Anne Takamara corrected.

Draco snorted. "If by catching it you mean that stupid boy lost half a finger and got knocked unconscious in the process, then yes, by all means. _He caught it_.

" "An injured Keeper is good news for us. If Quartermaine's having problems with his right hand, our Chasers should aim for that Hoop," Sharon deduced. She was used to Draco's pre-game strategizing.

"Oh, wait-" Draco scanned further along Carmen's notes. He's ambidextrous?" he asked Carmen, who was waiting expectantly at the doorway.

"He is," she nodded.

"Bugger."

Carmen was eager to please. "So happens that their Beater Bligh and this Astrid Huggins have only just started seeing each other. Maybe that could work to our advantage?"

Draco turned to his female players. There was a glint in his eye. Sharon Pucey might have called it inspiration. Ginny had to call it extreme dedication.

"I don't know," he pondered. "Would you girls be willing to show a bit of skin?"

Anne Takamara made a disgusted noise, picked up her broom and stalked out onto the pitch.

"_This_ is the rest of your strategy?" Ron asked, incredulous.

The sneakiest Harry ever got was asking the Gryffindor team to engage the enemy with their backs to the sun so as to blind the opposing players. And by Weasley Twins' standards, even that didn't really qualify as True Sneakery.

Draco tucked his gloves into the waist of his pants and then held the locker room doors open for the rest of the team to walk outside. The sound of the crowd, which also included Hogsmeade villagers and the visiting family members of students, was steadily growing.

His grin was wolfish. "Yes, Weasley. That and _winning_."


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter Eighteen**

It started raining at ten minutes into the match. It wasn't heavy rain, rather more of a sun-shower that wafted down from the clouds. Not that this did anything to dampen the enthusiasm of the crowd. They were used to the sometimes unpredictable Scottish weather and had come prepared with umbrellas, transparent tarps, raincoats and for the older students, an assortment of water repelling charms with various degrees of success.

After thirty minutes had elapsed, the score stood at sixty to fifty, the Aurors' way. The Auror Side, however, had now caught on to the fact that the Hogwarts team was playing do-or-die Quidditch and had given up on any pretence of friendliness.

It was initially apparent that none of the players from either team had played with their team mates before. There was a brief period of minor collisions, dropped Quaffles, missed Bludgers and in the case of Sharon Pucey, momentarily forgetting that Ginny was on her side.

Ginny was a good sport, however, and gave a thumbs up gesture to an appalled Sharon to indicate that the scrape she was sporting on her forehead was nothing serious. Ron, meanwhile, was holding up brilliantly in response to the barrage of goal-scoring attempts from the Auror Chasers.

He even managed a cheerful, smiling, "Good try!" when Chaser Astrid Huggins missed on one close quarter attempt. For some unfathomable reason, the number of Bludgers sent Ron's way by Auror Beater, Donald Bligh, seemed to increase exponentially after this incident. None on Draco's team were overly surprised at this development.

At forty-five minutes into the match and with no sign of the Snitch as yet, the game was called into a time-out due to an 'incident' between Draco and the opposing Seeker, Guy Tanner.

"This is torture," Harry muttered. He was using a pair of Neville's Omnioculars and had quickly forgotten the fact that he was meant to be sharing.

Madam Hooch was in the middle of heated debate with a defiant-looking Malfoy, while Madam Pomfrey was busy snapping her fingers in front of a dazed-looking Tanner.

"Are you referring to Luna's commentary?" Lavender asked. She was very pleased to have an excuse to put on her new, pink, raincoat and had been telling everyone so for the past ten minutes.

"What's wrong with her commentary?" Hermione retorted. She and Neville were making due with a bent, rusted, black umbrella that had seen better days (in the seventies probably). "Luna is half the reason people come to the matches these days."

That was true. Aside from the usual blood and gore, spills and thrills of regular Quidditch, there was also Luna's often hysterical commentary to look forward to. The Headmaster was a big fan.

Lavender gave her a levelling look. "I'm surprised you manage to dislodge your fingernails from Harry's forearm long enough to notice the commentary."

"Oh," said Hermione, startled. She glanced down at Harry's left arm and noticed the telltale crescent shaped indents left by her nails. "Sorry, Harry."

Harry was far from noticing. Once released from Hermione's death grip, he began leaning over the edge of the stands in a worrying fashion. Hermione was about to ask him to quit fidgeting and to sit down again, but Dean beat her to it. The other boy took an anchoring hold of the back of Harry's shirt, held fast and grinned.

Hermione might have thanked Dean if he didn't follow up this supposedly thoughtful act with, "Harry, if we lower you down a little further, do you reckon you can make out what Hooch is saying?"

"Can't," Harry said, distractedly, "busy." He seemed to be focussed on the edge of the forest, rather than on the pitch.

The rain had stopped by then and visibility was back to normal. It was just the kind of weather that one would expect a rainbow to make an appearance at any moment. An odd sight that would have been too; something as innocuous as a rainbow amidst hollers, and shouted abuse, bloody noses, bruises and rude fingers.

"Harry, will you please sit down? You're making me nervous," Hermione muttered.

"What on earth are you looking at anyway? The game's over _there_," Lavender reminded Harry, pointing to the sky. Madam Hooch had only just blown her whistle to restart the match. Tanner apparently regained consciousness, with no lasting ill-effects.

"I'm looking for evidence that Snape was completely off his nut to suggest that I'd be in any danger if I were flying today," was Harry's reply.

"Well you're not the only one anxious about the match. Hermione's nearly as bad you are," Lavender announced.

"Hermione is not at all anxious about the match, thank you very much!" Hermione snapped, feeling a wave of annoyance towards Lavender and her stupid pink raincoat.

Dean whistled. "Someone got out of the wrong side of bed this morning."

"Oh, be quiet, Dean."

Her attitude that afternoon ought to have worried her, but Hermione found that she couldn't have cared less. It was official; Malfoy had corrupted her. She was now evil. The certificate of confirmation was probably on its way in the mail.

Lavender was correct, however. She was most definitely as anxious as Harry. More so, and not just because of the ever present threat of danger. She was shaking slightly, a fact which she was able to disguise by tightly crossing her legs and her ankles. Her hands felt clammy and despite the very pleasant breeze that was now blowing through the stands. The back of her school blouse was fairly plastered to her skin with perspiration.

Hermione felt sick. She felt like she was about to sit for her NEWTS all over again. The reason for her predicament was bizarre. The contents of her stomach, no matter that they were meagre, seemed to be magically linked with whatever Malfoy was doing on his broom. When he dove, so did she. When he rocketed upwards, she was right there with him. When he did a rather impressive pirouette in the air to avoid Anne Takamara as she determinedly stalked a Bludger with revenge on her mind, Hermione felt like she was spinning with him.

Feeling like every goal was a matter of life and death was a new and interesting experience for her.

So _this_ was what Harry had tried to describe to her on several occasions. Pity Harry didn't tend to have a way with words and had not managed to sell the idea that Quidditch Was Life, to her.

"It's like wanting to throw up every two minutes and not really minding," she recalled a besotted looking Harry once telling her.

Her response had been something like, "Ew."

Really, it would have helped if Malfoy would just sit still in the air for longer than a second, but Hermione supposed that wasn't the point of Quidditch, was it?

Funny how these particular side effects were not specifically mentioned in Tallowstub's book. Feeling grumpy, Hermione thought it might be prudent for her to add a Post-It or something to the chapter on 'Effects'. Something along the lines of _'Under the effects of Fida Mia, a person may experience every utterly stupid, crazy, suicidal, dung-headed, Quidditch manoeuvre undertaken by one's Spell Partner.'_

Malfoy wasn't a reckless flier, though, Hermione had to admit. She had seen enough of him in the air over the years to know that he was undeniably good.

God, she hated flying. The fact that she was completely lousy at it was not even a determining factor. Well, ok, it _was_ - a little. It all went back to that first day of broom-handling lessons in their first year.

She had watched Harry's broom respond to him like an affectionate puppy to a doting owner. Ron had been a late-bloomer to his skill, but he had still got there in the end. To realise that there was something she could not master, no matter how much study she put into it, was disconcerting.

Often, Hermione wondered if it had anything to do with her being a Muggleborn. But if that was the case, how did one explain Harry and his prodigious talent on a broom?

Her ego preferred to swat that explanation, however, putting forth the fact that Harry was a freak of nature and thus did not count.

The quickest way to get from Point A to Point B, by Hermione's reckoning, was to walk. Failing that, there was always a bicycle. If you wanted to be pedantic about it, there was also the bus, the train, a tram, a taxi, not to mention Flooing or Apparition. Why fly a broomstick when one could choose to _live_?

"Honey roasted cashews?" Neville asked her. He nudged her in the arm with a brown paper bag. Hermione turned to blink at him. His warm, amiable smile worked to settle her nerves somewhat. "My gran roasted them herself."

She muttered her thanks and accepted a handful. The cashews gave her a reason to occupy her hands.

Thankfully, everyone else was too absorbed in the match to notice that Hermione spent a third of the game with her eyes tightly screwed shut.

**

Professor McGonagall felt only a little guilt at relinquishing co-commentating duties to Blaise Zabini that afternoon. The crowd enjoyed Luna Lovegood's commentary, but it was also necessary to appoint an additional person to assist her when she got overly excited.

Usually, it was McGonagall who provided a discreet nudge in the ribs to get the girl back on track, but given that it was a friendly match - though try telling that to the players - she had set aside that role for Zabini, who was as Quidditch keen as any player.

It was a pity that the Headmaster was back in London on Ministry business. He would have liked to have been there for the game. At the moment, McGonagall noted that the usually calm Head Boy looked about two seconds from strangling Miss Lovegood.

"Another goal by Ginny Weasley! Got it pass the rather big fellow with thinning hair and the tree-trunk thighs. That's now sixty point to Hogwarts. I must say, Ronald Weasley's doing a marvellous job in the face of all this pressure and excitement. Not at all nervous or nauseas or green in the face. Oooh! Clever little spinny type move by Hogwarts' own Sharon Pustly there! She does that very well, doesn't she?"

"Pucey," Blaise corrected, with infinite patience. "Sharon _Pucey_. That's the Ugandan Spinning Hurl."

"Ewe-Gander Spinning Hurl, ladies and gentlemen, I've been informed by my very knowledgeable co-commentator, Mr. Zabini, who is looking rather dashing in his black rain coat with Slytherin crest that matches his hair and eyes."

Over at the Hufflepuff stands, which were nearest, several older boys began cat-calling at the commentator's box. Blaise did his best impression of a glacier and sent them all death glares.

"Still no sign of the Snitch, however. Both Malfoy and Tanner are keeping a sharp eye out. I expect it will be making an appearance soon. Oh look! Neville Longbottom's waving at me. And he's got some lovely cashews. I tried one just before the game and they're positively to die for. THANKS FOR THE NUTS, NEVILLE!" Luna waved back.

There were sniggers from the crowd. Hermione patted Neville consolingly on the hand as he clutched his bag of cashews and tried to disappear into his seat.

Meanwhile, a goal attempt was made by the Aurors, with Ron nearly falling off his broom in his bid to catch the shot.

Blaise was gritting his teeth. "Lovegood, I swear-"

Luna resumed her duties. "Weasley saved it!"

"HE DID NOT!" Blaise interjected, looking enraged. "Will you pay attention!"

A brief scuffle ensued in the commentator's box, which had to be broken up by a very annoyed looking Professor McGonagall.


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter Nineteen**

Draco had to hand it to his players. They were playing remarkably well, given that this was their first time doing so, as a team.

Ginny and Sharon were aiming for a seventh goal for the Hogwarts' side and were tossing the Quaffle back and forth with impressive frenzy. Draco hovered by the Gryffindor rings long enough to speak to Ron, who had just been smacked in the leg by a Bludger.

"This Snitch better show itself soon," Ron grumbled, massaging his calf. "I think Bligh is trying to kill me."

"Comes with the territory of Beater, Weasley. You have met Crabbe and Goyle, haven't you?" Draco asked dryly, he sucked in a breath though his teeth when Astrid Huggins nearly intercepted a daring, long distance throw from Sharon to Ginny.

"Yeah, but with those two, I get the feeling it's a general dislike of all Gyffindors. I think Bligh's mission is _personal_."

Draco turned to looked at Ron this time, a sardonic smile on his face. "Quidditch is always personal."

Ron waved a hand dismissively. "Just get the Snitch quickly, will you? I don't how much longer I can keep this up. A Keeper should only have to look out for Quaffles, not ruddy, homicidal Bludgers. By the way, that other Seeker, Tanner? Keep feinting and I'll wager he'll keep following. He's not the most hard-working Seeker around, if you've noticed," Ron advised.

Draco had noticed. Seekers and Keepers had the good fortune of time and distance to pick up on these sorts of things. Tanner seemed intent on shadowing Draco as he hung high over the pitch to get a clear view. Draco thought him an odd choice for a Seeker. The man's build seemed more suited to a Beater, but there was no denying he was very quick.

"Feinting keeps my eyes off the prize. It's too risky. The man's lazy, not blind."

"Why is it risky? Because of your handicap?" Ron asked, his irritating freckled face a study in Innocence.

"I see she told you."

"Pah. My sister tells me everything."

Draco had to grin at that. "Weasley, you poor, naïve, sod."

Ron scowled. "Trust me about Tanner. He'll be your Siamese Twin if he thinks you know where the Snitch is. If you do spot the real thing before him, send him in the opposite direction first."

"If you're wrong about this Weasley, I'll have to come round to fetch a testicle in the evening."

"This is Quidditch," Ron said, grinning, using the exact same tone Draco had used on him earlier. "That's a fair trade."

Just then, the crowd erupted into boos as Sharon was side-swiped by Huggins just as she threw the Quaffle at the Auror's central ring. Quartermaine deflected the wayward shot easily and the score remained even.

"Good luck," Draco said, as he headed upwards.

"You too!" Ron called back.

The wait for the elusive Snitch was a short one. As all attention became firmly fixed on Ron as he fought off a fresh assault, Draco finally caught sight of it. It was whirring about roughly ten meters below.

A quick glance at Tanner revealed that the Auror Seeker had no idea as yet. Draco made a show of looking behind him very suddenly and bringing his broom about in preparation to speed off.

The crowd certainly noticed this and there seemed to be a collective gasp as hundreds of pairs of eyes began searching for he telltale golden shimmer. That was all Tanner needed to begin flying in completely the wrong direction.

_Time to end this_, thought Draco with an inward smile. As was usually the case, all other matters pertaining to the game faded away into the background and all that concerned Draco, as it would any other Seeker, was the fact that the Golden Snitch was now within reach.

Draco gently tipped his broom handle downwards to the required angle and then rocketed forward. The Snitch burst into action. Even after dozens of games and hundreds of practice sessions, its speed and agility was still a marvel to behold. Draco sped up to keep track of it. When he was right on top, with his broom beginning to vibrate from the high speed and as the ground began to rise up to meet him, Draco spun sharply to the left and clamped his right hand around the prize.

Tanner was still nowhere in sight, but not so Bligh. Draco heard the Beater come at him, before he actually saw him.

"Filthy Deatheater son of a bitch!"

While Bligh's words were not surprising, his kick was. It caught Draco square between the shoulder blades and ought to have sent him flying off his broom, but Draco had the sense to take his broom with him even as he went over.

He spun horizontally for four or five revolutions, before recovering enough to apply the brakes once he was a meter or so from slamming into the ground.

The Snitch was lost, however. And Tanner had just noticed.

The impact winded him and for a brief moment, Draco experienced the horribly familiar sensation of trying to take in a breath and finding his lungs to be uncooperative. He was only vaguely aware that both Ron Weasley and Horace Sommerby were shouting from some distance above and that Sommerby was showing off an impressive array of swear words which no Hufflepuff ought to have known.

Before even allowing Draco a chance to sort out grass from sky, and completely ignoring Madam Hooch's shrill whistle, Bligh darted forth and butted Draco in the face with his broom handle. He then shouted at Tanner to start questing for the Snitch, which was no doubt nearby.

Ginny was the first on the scene. The relatively calm expression on her face showed that she was no stranger to violence and un-sportsmanlike behaviour in Quidditch. Draco tipped back his head and swiped at his bleeding nose with his right sleeve, while Ginny eyed him with a frown. "Malfoy, I think your shoulder's out."

Ah, so it was. That would explain the blinding pain, then. Ignoring his nose, Draco began prodding at the area.

"Er, maybe you should do that on the ground. We'll ask Madam Hooch to-"

He had put his shoulder back in enough times to know how to do it effectively, how to breathe, how to control the feeling that could only be described as someone sticking a forge-heated dagger into his joint and twisting it.

Ginny wrinkled her nose. "Merlin's painted toenails, Malfoy! You don't really need to be _that_ hardcore."

A short distance away, Madam Hooch was attempting to decapitate a now grounded Bligh, using only threatening hand gestures.

Ginny was convinced that Draco was about to pass out. His shoulder was now back in place, but he looked a shade of white she hadn't seen before. He sucked in a long, shuddering breath and unfurled himself slowly.

Draco wanted to say something clever, something snide, but he was convinced that if he opened his mouth, all that emerge would be a tiny mewl of distress.

"Look! The Snitch!" Ginny suddenly screeched, sounding like her brother's ridiculous pygmy owl during breakfast mail delivery.

The sneaky little thing was hovering in circular motion just over their heads, like an eavesdropper. As if just realizing it had been seen, it shot upwards with a speed reminiscent of Granger's right arm during question time in Charms class.

"Hell," Draco swore. He was too worn out to think of anything more creative. The bright white, vision blurring pain in his shoulder was only just starting to recede. His left arm felt like it would drop of if he tried to move, and yet he knew he must.

"GET IT!!" Ginny screamed at him, the unnatural light of Quidditch Madness shining in her brown eyes. "Get it Malfoy!"

Draco didn't have to turn around to know that Tanner had heard her and was coming at them like a souped-up, Muggle firecracker. The loud boos and hisses of the entire population of Hogwarts plus Hogsmeade residents, were hot on his tail.

The score was dead even. If Draco caught the Snitch now, victory would be Hogwarts'.

He did, and it was.

**

It was definitely advantageous to be a Hogwarts prefect. If you happened to be a Weasley and a prefect, it earned you Molly Weasley's eternal admiration and extra fudge deliveries come Yule. The nice prefects were aware of and grateful for their good fortune and were always careful to use their powers only for good.

The not so nice prefects, on the other hand - and really, there were only two - were more ambivalent, rather than corrupt. Hermione and Blaise ran a tight ship and the fact that they got on without too much bickering themselves, set an example (or indeed, precedent) for the rest of the school to follow.

An example of a worthwhile perk was the fact that prefects were not always bound by annoying things like curfew, bedtime and restricted sections. Prefects were quite able to go missing for relatively long periods without anyone asking where, why and how.

Dumbledore allowed his prefects a huge amount of autonomy. It was a risky move, but the war had a maturing effect on the students and where some might have taken advantage and misbehaved, there was restraint.

Prefects were also rewarded with the occasional haven that was the Prefects Bathroom. And what a place _it_ was.

Floor-to-ceiling white marble that echoed pleasantly and made each drip and splash of water sound like you were bathing in a private grotto. The dome shaped room seemed to operate its own climate system and was never too stifling in summer, or too brisk in winter. The enormous bathtub that was sunk into the ground in the middle of the room could easily fit two Crabbe and Goyle-sized Quidditch teams. The diving board had been removed in Hermione's sixth year due to lack of use. In its place was a drinks cabinet, suspended over one section of the tub and stacked with every possible sugary drink a wizarding teenager could name and a few unpronounceable ones. Alcohol was strictly prohibited however, and McGonagall herself made regular inspections to ensure that whatever went on in the Prefect's Bath was done in good-natured, sobriety.

After the match was over, it was Ginny who suggested a bath to cure whatever it was that Hermione was suffering from.

"You look feverish," she told the Head Girl. "And your hair is wanting a good wash.

Thank goodness for Ginny and her forthrightness, thought Hermione, touching the noticeably limp, un-excited mess that was her hair. It gave her a welcome excuse to avoid the noisy, crowded, Quidditch after-party that was currently in full swing in four separate Common Rooms across Hogwarts Castle.

Ron was glowing, Ginny was pink cheeked, Harry was envious and ecstatic, and the Gyrffindor lounge smelled distinctly like Sweaty Boy.

Given that her senses seemed to be on permanent overdrive, Hermione had jumped at the chance to make a discreet exit away from her school mates, mumbling her apologies and giving a beaming Ron a final congragutulatory pat on the shoulder.

The Prefects' Bathroom fairly beckoned her.

There was quite obviously a reason why the tub could fit more than one, stout prefect, though that particular use of the bathroom was never uttered in polite company. Ron was not usually deemed to be polite company and had on more than one occasion, speculated aloud.

"Do you reckon anyone's shagged in there?" he had voiced, one sixth year Transfiguration afternoon.

"Have you?" Seamus Finnegan asked in return, dark blond eyebrows waggling. It was a sensible question, given than Ron was a prefect. Hermione couldn't recall what the response had been, and was suddenly thankful.

There had been a time when dating Ron had seemed a logical, almost natural progression, but things had changed in their sixth year. It would have been...well, _simple_.

Ending up together wouldn't have been a challenge. But Hermione knew that despite his easy-going outlook on life, Ron was after more than 'easy'.

While she remained amused at his new status as dashing and eligible Hogwarts bachelor, thinking of his lanky, freckled person engaging in carnal acts was not ideal. It made her squeamish, to be honest.

He loved her, Hermione was sure of that, would always be sure of that, but she had never been able to find out if he was _in love_ with her. Ever since fourth year, she had been afraid of asking in case he would say yes and then require some sort of reciprocation.

The difference between loving someone and being in-love with someone, Ginny had assured, was enormous. Hermione would have to give the younger girl the benefit of the doubt, seeing as Hermione could not confess to having felt that way about anyone.

Once she was safely cloistered in the bathroom, having added the 'Do Not Disturb' tag to the door, she knelt beside the numerous taps that circled the tub and decided that a refreshing bath was in order. The humid weather simply called for it.

She turned a series of bright green taps on and inhaled the invigorating scent of evergreens from the bubbling water than streamed forth. The bubbles were large and sturdy, just the way she liked them. Her lank hair responded immediately by beginning to curl in the light, fragrant steam.

When the water was nearly to the desired level, Hermione removed the bobby pins that held her fringe back, stripped off her clammy uniform and stepped into the bath.

Three quick breast strokes brought her to the far end of the tub where she determined she would soak until the mooncalfs came home.

**

_Hogwarts Hospital Wing_

"Mr. Malfoy! Will I have to chain your unwilling person to the bed in order to get a look at that shoulder?" Madam Pomfrey demanded.

She had had enough of the rude, sullen boy, who was obviously in a great deal of pain and was refusing to admit it. The bothersome shoulder of his had always been a problem. Malfoy was seated rather stiffly on the edge of an infirmary bed. He would have probably said something nasty in response, but his mouth was a grim, flat line of pain. He looked terrible, but was still on form enough to give her a snooty look.

The Parkinson girl was also there, hovering over him like a mother penguin intent on grooming her stubborn chick. "Madam Pomfrey, I can look after him," she assured. "I'll just take him back to the Common Room. They're having a celebration in his honour, you see. He absolutely _has_ to be there."

Poppy gave the girl a hostile look. "He absolutely doesn't have to be anywhere, Miss Parkinson, unless I declare him fit enough to do so." She turned her attention back to Malfoy. "At least let me give you a salve to rub over the area. You can leave it on for an hour or so while you rest a bit."

"We'll do that, then," Pansy said, snatching the small pot of salve from Madam Pomfrey's grasp.

Pomfrey took another good, long look at Malfoy. He was still in full Quidditch gear, gloves and all. The poor boy was probably in too much discomfort to remove any of it at the moment.

"Come on Draco, your public awaits," Pansy implored, oblivious to Madam Pomfrey's frown. It was obvious Malfoy was going to attend the party regardless of his condition.

Pomfrey might have clucked her tongue if it wasn't considered bad manners. It was a destructive thing sometimes, Slytherin pride. Nearly as bad as reckless Gyrffindor courage.

"Mr Malfoy, I'm afraid I'm going to have to insist on some sort of treatment. If not, I'll be forced to take this matter to Professor Snape."

That seemed to get his attention. When all else fails, it was a wise person who mentioned Snape to a stubborn Slytherin. "What do you suggest?" he whispered, through gritted teeth. His slate gray stare was cool, as always, but there was a hint of a challenge. He knew she was trying to offer him an outlet and was curious to see if she could deliver.

"A bath," Pomfrey declared, with authority. "If you won't let me look at you, then at least spend some time applying the salve before soaking in the bath for a bit. The analgesic in the balm works optimally with heat."

He stared at her. "Well, I'll just have to do that then."

"But Draco-" Pansy began

"You go on to the party, give them my apologies. They'll understand," he told Pansy. The change in his voice was quite remarkable. He was all melted butter and warm honey. The pain switch had apparently been flicked to the 'off' position.

Parkinson responded accordingly. She sighed. "If you really insist..."

"I do."

Ignoring Madam Pomfrey completely, Pansy gave him a final forlorn look, put the jar of balm gently in his right hand and took her leave. It was also obvious she was eager to return to the Common Room celebrations herself.

"Is this really for the bath or were you just being helpful?" Malfoy asked, unscrewing the cap, and sniffing at the balm tentatively. He tilted his head to the side and regarded Madam Pomfrey with an amused, indulgent expression.

At that moment, he looked that much like his father that Poppy had to resist taking a step back in alarm.

"It's my job to be helpful, young man," she replied, putting a chill into her voice. His particular brand of smoothness would not work on her. "And yes, that particular analgesic works best with applied heat. It's maker, Professor Snape, assures me of it."

"If Professor Snape made it, it must be the best," Malfoy commented dryly, screwing the cap back on. "Thank you." He stood up slowly, still looking like someone had jammed a metal rod up his left arm.

Madam Pomfrey stopped him when he was at the door. Merlin knew why she said it. Perhaps because it was the end of school of his schooling and the last time she would see him alone again for possibly forever. Or maybe it was because it simply needed to be said.

"You know, Draco, you don't always have to do what people expect you to do." He didn't look startled or angry at the question. Merely resigned. "If _I_ did anything else, Madam Pomfrey, I think the world would spin off its axis."

**

Draco made his way to the one place he knew he would have enough privacy to collapse into an unmanly heap – the Prefects Bathroom.

Avoiding the Common Room meant avoiding well-meaning thumps on the back, hugs, handshakes, cheers and sly looks from girls too young to even contemplate following up on offers.

The pain in his shoulder was lessening slowly, but it still hurt to be moving. He felt every footstep, every stair and every time his heart sent a fresh surge of blood pumping up to the injured area. By the time he reached the fifth floor and approached the portrait of Boris the Bewildered, he wanted nothing more than to lie in a warm bath, shut his eyes and plot exacting revenge on the terribly unwise Donald Bligh.

"Swots goinon?" mumbled Boris. The Great Glove Dilemma was currently in its third century with no signs of abating.

"Nothing you crazy old bastard, go away."

"Hang on, you can't go in there," Boris informed.

"Why the hell not?"

"Coz there be someone in there."

There, resting on the door handle was the 'Do Not Disturb' sign. Just beyond the doors, Draco could just make out the sound of running water.

_OH COME ON_. Draco dropped his forehead against the door and closed his eyes. The blasted room just _had_ to be occupied? Who on earth could be taking a bath now of all times! Every other normal student was basking in the post-victory glow with their classmates. Draco was about to take a lumbering step away from the door, when something stopped him.

His frustration washed away like a sand castle in the wake of a rising tide. He found his cheek and his palm pressed up gently against the door, and no idea how both had come to be there.

"Granger," he said very softly, as the knowledge of her presence beyond the door passed over him, the exact opposite of a chill. For one lovely moment, the pain in his shoulder was forgotten.

Whoah. Powerful stuff, this Fida Mia.

She was in there, alone. And he was standing there with nothing but a door separating them. Even better still, everyone else was someplace else.

_The road ahead leads to trouble, the Rational Part of his brain advised. Possibly more than just one kind of trouble. Best to order a quick retreat back to the dungeons where Pansy and the others are probably keeping your butter beer chilled for you. _

_I don't want butter beer, the Evil Bastard Part of his brain retorted. I want to be in the company of the girl who makes me forget about my hurts._

As it turned out, the Rational Part of his brain was about as strong willed as a rabbit loose in a vegetable patch.

_Well then, if you put it that way._

"Curmudgeons," whispered Draco, and the door opened for its prescribed password. He was about to fulfil his Evil Bastard quota for the month.

Yes. It was good thing to be a prefect.


	20. Chapter 20

**Twenty**

The room was incredibly steamy. If Draco closed his eyes, it was possible to imagine that he was stepping into the middle of a warm, fragrant cloud. He was pleasantly reminded of the Turkish Bath Houses he visited while on holiday in Istanbul with his mother.

Draco waved a hand in front of him, nearly expecting the movement to cut a visible slice through the thick air. There was an astringent, healing sort of scent to the steam, which seemed fitting given his purpose there.

_Oh, she's going to hate me._.

He was experiencing a tightness in his chest that hadn't been there prior to entering the bathroom. It was a funny sort of feeling; too mild to be guilt and too unpleasant to be anticipation. Whatever it was, it was annoying and he wished it would go away.

She was chin deep in the water when he spotted her, probably seated on one of the lower steps that were situated on opposite ends of the tub. Her eyes were closed and she looked so completely relaxed, that he was jealous. The bath ought to have been his that afternoon. He needed a bit of time and space from the real world.

Trust Granger to be the one to thwart his plans.

A quick glance around the bathroom revealed that her clothes were neatly folded and draped over a heated towel bar. Her shoes rested just beneath. _Always fastidious_, he thought, rolling his eyes.

Then again, perhaps not always. She hadn't been very neat or tidy in removing her clothes at the Muggle motel room during their binge weekend. They had left at least a few buttons, ripped from their clothing in their haste, on the carpet that morning. Draco was sure of it. The zipper on his dress pants hadn't been working either. He'd spent the entire carriage ride home (not to mention the quick trip to Diagon Alley Post Office), with his fly open.

The pants had come back from the laundry at the manor with a brand new zipper, courtesy of the ever efficient Toolip. It was a blessing that he hadn't been wearing button-up trousers. They had been almost frantic after the tattooing, as if every additional second of non-contact was agony.

Buttons would have frustrated Granger. He recalled that she had had enough trouble walking a straight line, let alone negotiating a column of tiny fastenings. She was so wobbly that Draco had very nearly carried her into the motel reception.

Granger wasn't the most graceful woman when drunk, but she had been a very cheerful drunk and had smiled and laughed more in that one night that he had seen her do in her entire seven years at school.

If he ever had the misfortune of having brats of his own, he'd be sure to tell them that it never did anyone good to dabble in magic they didn't understand. He could imagine regaling the story of how he'd ended up inconveniently married to a bothersome Mudblood all because he had been foolish enough to try his hand at dodgy, _old_, Magick.

He'd have to, of course, leave out the part about his wild night of mind blowing sex with the aforementioned bothersome Mudblood very nearly making up for their troubles to follow.

The evidence - the tattoo - would be gone soon, but at least he had one souvenir. Granger's peach-coloured underpants were sitting at the bottom of his trunk. It was with some embarrassment that he found himself staring at them oddly, whenever he reached in to retrieve a fresh pair of socks.

_Yes, I'm still here. I'm not going anywhere until you do something about me_, they seemed to say, nestled in between a pair of comfortable argyles and a pair of garish, yellow, duckie socks that Millicent had given him two Yules ago.

There was interesting subtext buried somewhere in that thought, but Draco decided not to ponder too long over what it could be. There were other, more pressing concerns in his life besides Granger. This was simply an exercise to get the girl out of his skin so that he could concentrate on the task the Ministry had assigned to him.

Distraction was not a good thing, when one undertook spying duties. He knew enough about deceit to know that it helped to have a clear, focused mind, free of pretty toes, shapely calves and lightly-dimpled, lower backs...

His brain was insisting that a simple afternoon encounter with Granger would be a sure-fire cure. Their night in London hadn't quite got rid of the itch he honestly hadn't known he'd been harbouring.

Best to give it a thorough, _final_ scratch He'd be able to leave her alone afterwards.

Yes, of course he would.

Draco proceeded (somewhat gingerly) to a marble bench set in one corner, sat down and stared to take off his gloves. His left hand was being mulish, so he pulled his gloves off with his teeth and tossed them, deliberately and noisily, to the floor. The impact of the hardened leather smacking against the marble made for quite an echo.

Granger was so startled, she nearly split her head on the edge of the tub. As it was, she slipped under the water for a moment and came up sputtering. It was no great surprise when the Paragon of Virtue's hands flew to cover her less than considerably assets. She ducked down low in the water until her face was almost completely hidden behind a layer of suds.

She was thus reduced to a dark, wet head on the surface of the water, like some sort of hairy frog resting on a lily pad.

He waggled his fingers at her.

"_Malfoy_!" More sputtering, followed by a cough. The bubble bath formula probably didn't taste very nice. She pushed her hair off her face. "What the hell are you doing in here!"

He was now on the laces of his Quidditch boots and regretting his supernatural skill in tying undoable knots.

"You'd think that would be obvious. I'm about to have a bath." It was probably unwise not to sound so cheerful about it, but he couldn't help himself. Riling her gave him a great deal of pleasure.

The left boot came off, followed closely by the right. Draco tossed them to the side. His grey, woollen socks were next.

Granger's eyes were in real danger of popping out of her head. "A bath?" she repeated, looking like Weasley at his most confused. There was a large clump of bubbles stuck to the side of her head. Her cheeks were bright pink and getting pinker by the minute. She had good bones, Draco noted. Delicate but still imbued with a strength that meant her chin would never look weak, a quivering lower lip would never look pitiable.

"Yes, Granger. A bath. An act involving water, soap, a tub and if one is lucky," he paused for evil effect, "_company_."

She licked her lips. The confused look gave way to understanding and then, inevitably, to fury. Enough fury for her to forget that her hands were supposed to be folded in front of her chest. Her fists were probably balled under the water. Draco had to admit that she was getting quite good at shooting him scathing looks.

It was probably Blaise's influence. Merlin knew _that_ boy had it down pat.

For some reason, Draco found himself not liking that idea at all. If she was starting to pick up nasty character traits from attractive Slytherin males, he'd much rather she pick them up from him. He certainly had plenty enough to go around. In any case, icy anger rather became her (as did being naked and covered in slippery suds).

Screw what the rest of the school thought about her. She was an attractive harpy. A pretty prig, even.

Draco had resigned himself to the fact that he found her easy on the eye. Whatever happened between now and Graduation, Draco was convinced that if he survived into later adulthood, he'd have a permanent fondness for long-limbed, slender, messy-haired brunettes with enormous eyes and no discernible skill for conversation.

And there was also the whole brains thing. Alas, his days of worshipping at the feet of busty Nordic barmaids who thought that the 'metric system' was the London subway were at an end.

The pain in his shoulder was apparently not enough to detract his cock from this realisation, and it was making its increasing presence known. He'd have to be a bit subtle about removing his pants or she might end up hexing him after all. News would reach Potter and Weasley by late afternoon and he'd be dodging more serious curses by dinnertime.

She was saying something now. It was impressive how she could summon up such a hideously shrill voice when she put her mind to it. Granger was usually soft spoken, albeit in a commanding, nagging, whining sort of way.

"Maybe you haven't noticed, Malfoy, but the bathroom is currently occupied! Wait your turn you letch! Get out right now or I'll-"

"What? Lodge a complaint? Fill out a student feedback slip and drop it in a suggestion box? Scream? Nobody will hear you."

She growled. Actually, _growled_. It was adorable. "You don't get to do this, you bastard. I'm not playing these games with you! We have an _arrangement_." She was so angry that she slapped at the water.

Unfortunately, this brought her attention to the fact that her breasts were now visible through the suds. Merlin's goat herder. How was it that the rest of the school never noticed that their Head Girl had such an aesthetically pleasing rack? Small but perfectly proportioned to the rest of her, with small tightly drawn nipples that were quick to respond to his hands and his mouth and flushed just as enticingly as her face.

She was slim to the point of being boyish, but with hints of curves and softness in all the right places. Most of these attributes were hidden under serviceable jumpers in winter, and baggy t-shirts or loose blouses in summer.

Perhaps it was better that way. She might start to get _ideas_ if every other chap got all vague-looking and tongue-tied from staring at her.

Ron Weasley doing that was bad and disturbing enough already, thanks.

His memory of that night in London was still sketchy, though that fact didn't bother him as much as it did that first day. He remembered the _feel_ of things more than actual events taking place in any kind of order. He remembered how she felt in his hands. Vague recollections of how both breasts fitted very easily, into his palms, the resiliency and smoothness of her skin, the way the curve of her shoulder and the spot where said shoulder became her neck felt under his lips.

She had been far from idle while all this touching had been taking place. Granger had taken to him with her usual confidence, aided to an astounding degree by her being blind drunk. Honestly, if she were his, he'd bar alcohol from her, for life. In case some other randy sod though to capitalise on her Achilles' heel. Just like he had.

Despite what he would call a 'natural lustiness' (a term used often by Crabbe in defence of his village-broomstick Beauxbatons girlfriend), there had also been a genuine innocence to Granger which he found terribly interesting. It was like looking at a colour he hadn't seen before.

She splashed water on him. Quite a bit actually. The effect was welcomed. He flicked his wet hair from his face, used some of the water to clean up the mess left by his bloodied nose, and gave her a tut-tut sort of look.

"Settle down, Granger," he scolded, with mock gravity, "you'll injure yourself."

"I'll injure _you_ if you don't get out," she seethed. She looked around in desperation, probably for a weapon other than soapy water. Her wand was with her clothes and thus, was out of reach.

There was however, a tray with soap, bath salts, oils and a sponge.

The soaps came flying at his head, one by one, and he had the sense to dodge the small, hard, little missiles. This was followed by the jar of bath salts which shattered when it clipped the bench. The sponge came next, but it was wet and so it made an unimpressive 'bleurp' sound against the wall as it slid down, leaving a wet trail.

"You disgusting, perverted, slime!" she screamed, reaching for the tray. Unfortunately, this was fixed to the tub. She tugged at it a few times, realised her breasts were in full view and then ducked back down in the water again to stare at him with acidic sullenness.

If he laughed, she'd get angrier and probably would do herself some sort of injury. So Draco bit his lip, controlled himself, avoided the glittering shards of glass that now littered the floor, and began to unlatch his protective, padded vest.

He also started to hum.

His calm demeanour obviously infuriated her, but unless she was going to march, stark naked and dripping wet, out of the bath to fetch her wand and use it on him, there was not much else she could do.

"I swear, Malfoy, if you don't leave right this instant, I'm going straight to Dumbledore."

He'd been waiting for that. She needed to know what exactly was at stake for his manipulations to work. Draco knew she wouldn't tell. To tell would be akin to admitting that she was just as much of a screw up as everyone else.

Besides, she _liked_ him.

Though perhaps he was testing that 'like' far too soon and in too confrontational a manner...

Whatever. Youth was after all the time to make potentially stupid decisions and to learn from mistakes. Draco was prepared to call her bluff. If they really were making an avoidable error that afternoon, well at least it would be an enjoyable one.

Once the vest was off, he peeled off his sweat-soaked, Quidditch jersey, groaning slightly when the left sleeve came free off his injured arm and dropped it on the bench. The pain caused him to blink a few times to refocus his vision. If he fainted, she would probably drown him or something.

He turned to stare at the wall, for both their benefits, and began to undo the fastenings on his trousers.

**

"YOU WILL KEEP YOUR GOD DAMNED PANTS ON, MALFOY!"

Hermione was in a state. Malfoy had chosen to completely disregard the fact that the bathroom was in use, and barged in. Only 'barged' wasn't the right word. The bastard had been very quiet about it. He had simply...sauntered in, declared his intentions and expected her to _not_ be bothered.

The fact that they had a history together was his lame excuse, no doubt. Well, she was bothered. This was exactly the kind of behaviour she expected from him and hoped he wouldn't resort to. Maybe other girls found it charming, found him unpredictable and swoon-worthy, but not her. She hated how he made her feel like a prude, like she was no fun at all.

His remarks on the morning of the Dreaded Waking came back to haunt her:

_"Do you miss it?" _

_"Do I miss what?"_

_"The stick I managed to knock loose from your arse last night."_

_Was that true? Was she so tight-laced that she couldn't see the lighter side of things? What was the harm in a bit of play to take the edge of the spell? She had certainly been willing to go down that path to ease her graduation doldrums on the night of the party. _

Other prefects had brought their own partners into the bathroom at one time or another. Did it really take an alcoholic binge for her true colours to surface? And what exactly _were_ her true colours?

Scarlet, most likely, thought Hermione. Did sin even have a colour?

They were both of legal age. If she consented... Consented to what, exactly? To being sexually harassed and threatened? To being played with and then tossed aside when he got bored? There were some things that no woman, Muggle or Magic, should ever have to put up with. Draco Malfoy was one of them.

The realities of where the effects of Fida Mia ended and where her genuine feelings for him began were problematic. Perhaps there was something deeply wrong with her, something that craved his inconsistent treatment of her - quiet, funny and soulful at one turn, cold, callous and not a little scary, at another.

It was stupid. _She_ was stupid. Hermione was feeling like a girl who had just got her bubble burst by a boy who turned out to be the cad she had originally thought him to be.

If he made her cry right now, she would never forgive him.

Further analysis of her feelings was interrupted, then, by the odd, combined sensation of goose bumps and a wave of warmth that seemed to originate from the core of her and suffuse into her extremities. It felt like someone had just doused imaginary hot rocks with water, adding to the heat and steam that already filled the room.

Against her better judgment, she raised her eyes to see what new mischief he was up to, and was greeted with the sight of his bare back and the tattoo that symbolized precisely half of their horrid little problem.

There they were, his wings, looking just as jaw-droppingly beautiful as the last time she had seen them. Being that close to them again, without the hindrance of clothing and crowds, was mesmerising. His back was slick with perspiration and this gave the already fluid-looking, black wings a wonderful lustre. Every ripple and movement of his muscles under his skin gave life to the tattoo. He looked like some sort of bruised angel, fresh from flight (or fight, in his case), still carrying all his tension from recent battle.

Where the left wing was bent in slightly, Hermione noted a recent addition to his otherwise flawless skin.

"Good lord, is that from Bligh?" she exclaimed, staring with wide eyes at the horrible bruising that marred his left shoulder. Everyone had seen the foul, but it hadn't looked quite that serious from the stands. The bruise was a mishmash of purple and blue.

He looked at her, glanced down at the bruise, and then shrugged. "I'll get him back."

For all his casual dismissal of the injury, it had to be hurting like hell. Harry tended to do the same. Boys were silly like that.

"Pomfrey gave me a salve to apply. I was hoping to obtain your assistance," he added.

Her sympathy vanished. She longed to throw something else at him. He obviously knew he wasn't welcome and yet there he was, _shirtless_ and asking to share a bath with her so that she could play kinky nursemaid.

His pants were still on though, perhaps there was hope yet.

"You were hoping for a miracle then," she stated flatly. "Get lost, Malfoy. Go get Pansy or one of your other little conquests to do it for you."

He looked irritated now, and mildly baffled. "Pansy was never a conquest. Why does everyone keep thinking that?"

_Maybe because of your reputation as the slut of Hogwarts, you tosser_, she thought to herself, but had the manners not to say it. She had manners, even if he did not.

Outwardly, she turned her back to him and folded her arms. If all else failed, maybe he would disappear if she just ignored him.

No such luck, apparently.

"I've seen all your bits, Granger. And you've seen mine. Up close, remember?" he said. What followed was the unmistakable sound of trouser removal.

Honestly, nobody took that long on a zipper! He was being deliberately annoying.

"Unfortunately, yes. I do remember," she muttered, dismayed to see that her flush was now creeping down to her chest. A quick look at the towels and bathrobes confirmed that they were too far away. There was only a tiny washcloth in the bath, with her.

If only she had mastered wandless Accio. Harry could do it.

"I'm going to count to five, you disgusting letch. If you're not gone by then, I'll maim you." Idle threats never worked on him, so she put some steel in her voice. "One...two."

"You're beautiful," he told her, in a quiet voice. There was no teasing in his voice this time. He was probably naked now. He even _sounded_ naked. "I don't think I've told you that. You make me hard just thinking about you."

Hermione's mouth went quite dry. His voice always dipped a little when he mentioned the unmentionable. The _things_ he could say sometimes. She didn't think she would ever get used to it even if she were married to him for thirty years. He had a natural propensity to shock her.

"You're a liar and a bastard and I was a complete idiot to sleep with you. _Three_."

"Have a heart," he implored.

He was in the water now. Hermione heard the soft splash and felt the ripples. She made a sound to convey her disbelief.

"Have some sense of propriety! FOUR!"

She peeked around her shoulder and saw that he remained on 'his' side of the tub, leaning against the edge with his eyes shut. Even from that distance she could see his wet, spiky lashes resting on his damp cheekbones. There was a nasty scrape along his jaw line that looked like it stung. There were also a few smears of blood under his nose and around his mouth and chin.

He looked battered and bruised and despite the fact that he was Satan, she couldn't help feeling for him.

A minute or so passed. When she was satisfied he was probably going to stay like that for a while, she made to leave. If he wanted to look at her, so be it.

"Where are you going?" he asked, almost as soon as she had made her mind up.

She stared at him as if he'd asked her if trousers came with two legs or three. "Away from _you_. Have a bath. The room's yours."

"Stay," he said, simply. There was only the smallest trace of pleading in his voice. It was minuscule, but it was ridiculously hypnotic.

Hermione was certain that Malfoy was the kind of person who'd rather have his tongue cut out and force fed to him, before he pleaded with anyone.

"Draco, you are stark raving mad, you know that?" He really need to know that.

"Stay." This time, there was nothing nice or polite in the look on his face. It was like the time he accosted her outside his father's study when they were at Malfoy Manor. He had been all business then, the Draco who always got what he wanted. "Stay or I'll tell Potter and Weasley we fucked liked rabbits last weekend and that you give the best blowjob I've ever had the pleasure of receiving." There was that familiar cruelty in his voice now.

It probably had something to do with the knowledge that her reputation was a powerful bargaining chip. Hermione felt her face lose its colour. "You wouldn't do that," she challenged. "You have just as much to lose as I do."

"Not really," he informed her, shrugging with his good shoulder. She realized then that his eyes had changed colour. It was relatively dark in the bathroom, and they had gone from bright silver out in the sunlight, to a deep, grey that was the colour of old iron.

He pushed off from the edge, startled her by taking hold of her hand and bringing her back with him. When she didn't immediately struggle, the grip on her wrist eased and he began to massage the fragile bones of her hand with maddening leisure.

"Potter and Weasley might make the odd, bungling attempt to beat me up, but I can live with that," he told her, still stroking at her hand. The sensation of his fingers tracing patterns into her palm was dizzying. "My father will get over it. He needs me. He knows I'm determined to take over eventually. And if Lucius _does_ decide to throw a tantrum regarding his arrangement with the Ministry, I'll enlist Professor Snape to settle him."

She felt like taking hold of his shoulders and shaking the logic free from wherever it was stuck inside his head. "A week ago, you were just as put off by all of this as I was!" she insisted.

"I've had time to think of the pros and cons. If anything, snaring you will confirm my reputation." His smile was sudden. "You can be the white elephant to my Ahab."

"That's white _whale_, you snotty, creep." He obviously had no idea how Moby Dick ended. She had half a mind to tell him that Ahab died a horrible death in which he accidentally speared himself in the foot and slowly bled to death over the course of a week on his stupid ship.

She was shaking with anger and with some other, indescribable emotion. It was a probably sadness, she realised. Disappointment was too trivial a word for what she was feeling. "So it's come to blackmail has it?"

Curse her voice for breaking like that. She tugged stubbornly at her wrist. He held on just as stubbornly. They were silent for a moment and both of them seemed content to merely watch the other. Hermione found it amazing that he could still look her in the eye after saying everything that he had just said.

"Will you just rub the ruddy salve into my shoulder," he snapped, sounding impatient for the first time since he entered the bathroom. He threaded his fingers with hers. "Please. That's all I ask."

"Why?"

"Because the pain is killing me," he said, wryly. He retrieved the balm from where he had placed it on the floor beside the tub.

Hermione watched as he uncapped the jar, scooped out a healthy glob of the stuff and slapped in into her hand. Under the water, he had hooked his ankles around her calves to free up his hands. The hair on his legs tickled her. He brought her closer to him, close enough that his cock pressed up against her belly.

The feel of it made her head spin and warmth surge into the part of her stomach that had previously been home to a nest of butterflies.

The boy had no modesty whatsoever. He wasn't even blushing.

"You see, I have no secrets from you." He tucked a springy curl behind her ear and looked amused when the lock seemed to cling to his finger.

Her hair was traitorous. She'd chop the lot off over the summer. Just see if she didn't.

"The hell you don't," Hermione retorted, inexplicably annoyed that she didn't know all that much about him. "What did Dumbledore tell you in his office last Wednesday? And what's wrong with your shoulder that Madam Pomfrey can't fix it? And what does Snape have to do with your father's moods? What, are they old chums from Death Eater Summer Camp or something?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Or something. So many questions. Start rubbing and maybe I'll tell you."

Against every instinct, against her better judgement, she did as he requested. If only because she was curious, she told herself. She spread the balm more evenly between her fingers and started rubbing it into his skin. The scent brought to mind eucalyptus and several of the more familiar oils Snape made them use in different kinds of healing potions. She wasn't very gentle at first and he grunted at each deliberate dig of her fingers.

No denying there were horrid knots in his shoulder and she worked at them with a little too much energy. Hermione received some satisfaction in the thought he'd probably be in some discomfort for a few days at least.

He didn't complain or stop her, though. He just stared at her the whole time, with no expression. She could almost feel his gaze taking in her red cheeks, downcast eyes and her mouth. She suddenly felt the urge to pull her hair forward to shield her face from him.

"Granger, I swear I can feel the heat coming off your face. Haven't you looked after a sick sibling...or a pet?"

She kept her eyes on her task. "Crookshanks doesn't get sick. And I'm an only child. Don't you Death Eater types do your research?"

"I'm sure Death Eater types do their research, but as I'm not a Death Eater, I really wouldn't know," he answered tartly. He was probably sick of the association. And then he added, in a pondering tone this time, "I didn't realise you were an only child. You don't act it."

For some reason, he seemed quite taken with the shell of her ears and her earlobes. He wouldn't quit touching them. Her jaw line received equal attention. He ran a knuckle up and down, stopping at her lips.

"How do I act, then?" she inquired. She ran both thumbs over the darkest part of the bruise, where purple competed with blue, and pressed lightly.

He winced. "Motherish. You act like you've been looking out for helpless, dumber people and animals your whole life."

She snorted. "Ron and Harry would _love_ to hear that."

"Harry has a martyr complex, is overly fatalistic, borderline depressive and defies authority simply because deep down he thinks he's truly better than the rest of us. Ron on the other hand, suffers from Hand Me Down Syndrome. He probably has a lot more talent in him than he's showing. He's so used to coming second best in everything that it's become comforting to him. Winning on his own merits terrifies him, which is why he manages to only perform above-average in most Quidditch matches. He adores Potter slightly more than he resents him, and he's in love with you but has long since resigned himself to not having you."

Draco caught a drop of water off the tip of her nose as he finished.

Hermione gaped at him. Every nasty, secretive, ugly thing she ever thought about the boys over the past seven years, had been reduced to a few clipped sentences by Draco.

"You're not the only one who watches and learns," he explained. He pulled her into his arms. It was a double barrage of emotional and physical revelations and she found herself momentarily stunned.

The spell doubled and re-doubled every tremor, every flicker of emotion within her. Hate and apprehension was magnified, so was her other more complex feelings for him. Her stomach was in knots and her heart was racing.

It was a sickening that she wanted to wrap her arms him and hold on until everything that was bad in the world melted away. Particularly because she was convinced that much of that 'badness' resided inside _him_

. "You should have stayed in the Infirmary," she concluded. God knows what was showing in her eyes. Too much, probably. She didn't care.

"Yes, I should have," he replied, looking serious now. Draco was actually looking rather worried. He looked like he wanted to kiss her. He looked exactly like he did in the forest before he had kissed her the previous week.

"Please don't touch me," she said, shivering despite the heat.

"Believe me. I'm trying not to," he replied, hoarsely. They were whispering.

_Oh God oh God oh God_.... He was boy. Just a boy. She could handle him.

"Damn it, just let it go Granger. I promise I won't hurt you."

_Liar_, she thought, sadly. And then she kissed him.


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter Twenty-One**

It was like a dam breaking, as if someone had flicked a finger at a straining, crumbling, old levie and what had been a trickle of water, suddenly became a torrent with no warning in between

Granger's legs were wrapped around him under the water and his hands took hold of her bottom to support her. The feeling of skin on skin was phenomenal. He was surprised that the combined heat coming off their tattoos hadn't set the water in the bath to boiling. It wasn't _heat_ per se, but a kind of warm friction that was concentrated in the areas where fingers and palms met skin. The whorls of his fingertips felt sensitized, as if he'd suddenly sprouted additional nerve endings. Draco's last coherent thought was that he had an overdue library book to return to Madam Pince, who was going to murder when she found out he'd accidentally dropped it in a muddy puddle on his way to Hogsmeade a month earlier.

_I'm going mental_, he realised, and found that he didn't much care.

Her kisses were very much like her. There was a quiet concentration to it. It was almost studious. Her attention to detail was remarkable. It felt like she was absorbing as much as she could of his touch, taste and texture.

Perhaps there would be a test later. He smiled into her mouth at that thought, feeling a curious mixture of contentment and white hot, lust.

There was none of the overly exuberant, sloppy attentions of some girls who thought that aggressively smothering his face counted for good technique. He was quite content to passively hold on to Hermione and let her subtly burn him the way she was at that moment.

She was still being ridiculously gentle. It might have been because of his shoulder. He wanted to tell her that he was tougher than that, that she could hurt him if she wanted. He might have, too, if he could make himself pull away from her mouth.

The tension, the pain, the half-thought out plans to slip Donald Bligh some Purging Powder in the man's morning danish fizzled away. He dragged one hand over her breasts, aware of the fact that he wasn't employing much technique apart from simply trying to touch her everywhere. The contrast between her amazingly soft skin and the scrapes and Quidditch-earned calluses on his hands was delightful.

When her gentle attentions were no longer enough, he caught her chin in his hand and tilted her head to the side to take control of their kissing. His reward for his increased participation was a sigh from Hermione. She placed her hands on his shoulders, then moved them up around his neck, and then further up still to thread through his hair. Her breasts were flush against his chest. He wanted to put his mouth on them, but that would involve letting her go for a moment, and he didn't think he could manage that.

Eventually it was Granger who pulled back, probably feeling the need to get better situated. As it was, she had managed to climb up against his much taller frame and kept sliding down every time she got distracted enough to let go off his neck. This gave him a chance to briefly look at her. If only to make sure someone hadn't swapped her for a dark-haired, know-it-all, succubus when he wasn't looking.

No. It was Hermione. She was the girl from the motel again; with all that familiar affection and desire _for him_ radiating from her. The constricted feeling in his chest made a brief comeback. He wanted to bring her home, lock her up in a cupboard and only take her out on special occasions.

Draco was not one to put much stock into religion, but he recalled being told by some touched-in-the-head, Muggleborn ninny, that God designed people to come in pairs. Each individual had a corresponding mate. Maybe in the greater scheme of things, she was supposed to be his.

_The definition of dangerous_, his brain intruded, like a rude poke in the ribs, _is when a girl has the ability to make you think about your Maker._

He placed his mouth against the beckoning skin under her ear and sucked. It was good to feel the heat of her blood just beneath, welling up under his mouth. He pulled back and observed the enticing red blotch he had created. Merlin help him, he wanted to put more marks on her. He wanted to see her walking past him in school corridors, tugging discreetly on her collar to disguise the bites and scrapes he knew were there.

Hermione eventually released him a second time to catch her breath. Each staggered, soft intake of air conveyed her nervousness, but then her languid exhalation reassured him. As dark as her eyes were, he could see that her pupils had dilated to the point where black had nearly overtaken brown.

She looked feverish and more than a little distracted. He let her place light kisses at the corner of his mouth, on his cheekbones, on his nose and on his closed eyelids. The tip of her pink tongue darted out to sample the moisture that collected there.

Draco said something, couldn't think what it was. Probably something rude, followed by the word, 'God.'

God, again. This was not good.

His hand found its way to her hip, and touched her tattoo. He could almost imagine the tiny jolt of visible electricity that leaped out of his fingers just before he made contact with the silver dragon.

Both of them nearly expired from the shock when he did.

The spell may have been etched into her skin, intangible and illusory, but it's effect was very real. Hermione seemed as disoriented as Draco felt after that initial contact and rested her head against his shoulder. She felt lighter than a butterfly in his arms.

He didn't want to stop. The spell demanded that they _not_ stop. His teenage libido had apparently defected to the Fida Mia cheer squad and it was _roaring_

. Not thinking about anything else aside from from completing what they had started, he took hold of his cock and guided it into her lap. It was not an easy task given the height difference, and the fact that she was all slippery.

She squirmed against him as he closed his eyes against her forehead, said her name and then sank about an inch into her.

He honestly didn't think he'd be able to stop even if the Castle walls started falling down around them. He wanted more. He wanted all of her now. _There will be other times_, he told himself as he kissed the fragrant skin between her brows. He'd make it up to her; make her come a dozen different ways.

Just not right now.

He paused for too long, apparently, because her eyes were open again and she was looking at him with more trepidation than was conducive to guilt-free shagging. He pushed in a little more and then nearly died when the initial tightness gave way to soft, smooth, heat. The water was warm, but it was nothing compared to being held inside her.

"Wait. Wait a minute," she said, frowning, not quite telling him to stop, but neither was she giving him an enthusiastic thumbs up. She pulled back.

_Unfuckingbelievable._ By all that was holy, there was _no_ possible way she was telling him to stop?

And yet that was the same hand that only minutes before had been buried in his hair, only now it was pushing insistently against him.

"I don't really want to do this," she explained, sounding breathless, sounding scared. The brightness in her eyes was more than just the bathwater reflected.

Draco realised he must have looked a bit stupid, staring down at her with his mouth hanging slightly open and breathing like he'd just done the Hogwarts to Honeydukes sprint in under thirteen-point-six minutes. Somehow, she was choosing to ignore the fact that he was nearly completely buried inside her.

Torture was Hermione Granger changing her lunatic mind, Draco discovered.

He set her down. What the hell else was he supposed to bloody do? The cornered animal look she was sporting was making that damnable tightness in his chest return again.

Draco was suddenly angry. Very angry. The thrill of the chase was only fun as long as he caught up with his target in the end, and Draco _always_ did. Always. What was so wrong with him that she couldn't even contemplate engaging in a bit of harmless sex? He wasn't hideous, he didn't smell, he was well-off, he could hold his own in the brains department.

He was the son of a murderous Death Eater.

_Try washing that off. That taint isn't going to come off in the bathwater._

It was not self doubt, but rather her shudder that finally got to him. She actually cringed when he tried to touch her, as if she was suddenly disgusted by him.

"Didn't your mother ever tell you that it's nasty to tease?" he hissed, in more scathing a tone that he intended. It was just that his voice felt like it hadn't been used in a week. Neither was he in a mood to soothe an uptight, frigid girl who had uncanny power to make him jump through all sorts of hoops.

To make matters worse, his shoulder was hurting all over again and his cock was in an extremely uncomfortable state. She watched him with an annoying amount of patience. He'd have preferred indignation.

"My mum taught me about the importance being a moral person," Hermione responded quietly. "I think your mother must have skipped those particular lessons with you." She wasn't trying to be unkind.

It was necessary to be jarring with Malfoy, sometimes. She had to make him understand that they couldn't go through with what they had almost done. Disaster.

And it had been so very close.

She would have been a nervous wreck, after. Call her selfish, but Hermione felt that her sanity ought to be her number one priority.

"Oh, I learned enough," Draco sneered. "Narcissa had plenty of useful things to teach me." He made it quite clear that moral lessons were not deemed to be of any great use in the Malfoy household.

"I'm surprised she managed to find the time to raise you, let alone teach you anything. Your mum seemed quite happy to jump ship with a trunk full of loose change and the Malfoy silverware at the first sign of trouble. Hardly what I would call a model parent." Hermione knew she was being cruel now, but to Draco's credit, he didn't falter for a second.

"Granger, I do believe I'm starting to rub off on you," he told her, with too much gentleness. It was eerie. "Now apologise sorry for that."

Hermione curled her lip at him. "Screw you! You say sorry first."

"Ah. _Now_ we're getting somewhere." Quick as lightning, Malfoy took hold of her by the upper arms and spun her around so that her back was against the edge of the tub. Water sloshed up over the rim and onto the floor.

"Think I'm bad-mannered do you? Think I'm brutish? Think you're too good for me?" he whispered to her.

She tried to knee him in the groin, but he caught her legs in between his own and kept them there. Her struggles were as pointless as they had been on that morning in the motel room. They were on familiar ground again. Hermione thought that it was truly a mystery why she was capable of making him so furious. He wasn't particularly known for losing his cool. He was more of an insidious plotter.

"Actions speak louder than words," she informed, looking calm despite the tremor in her voice. The dragon on her hip felt like it was burning into her. Perhaps the ink was like some sort of slow releasing poison, corrupting her mind and taking away her ability to reason. She wanted to slap the superior look right off her face.

"They do," he agreed. "I believe a demonstration is in order."

_Oh dear_. Hermione sent a longing glace at the bathroom door.

A muscle was twitching in his jaw. "My mother always told me that it was important to finish what I start. I was a very precocious child and always had my hands in one thing or another. Much like you, I imagine." He braced his right arm between her back and the tub, to cushion her as he pinned her. "You, Miss Granger, are going to finish what you started."

What _she_ started? Honestly! Malfoy was in denial. Unless he meant what she had started on the night of the graduation party when she approached him. Oh God, was he referring to that?

"Go fuck yourself."

His smile was almost loving. "I could, but again, company is always better."

When his grip on her relaxed, she snatched her left arm out from between them, and placed it on his injured shoulder, thumb and forefinger spread. He didn't so much as flinch or try to stop her. He wasn't stupid. He knew what she was threatening to do to him. They both knew where he was vulnerable at that moment.

All she had to do was squeeze as hard as she possibly could.

Hermione didn't know what was more disturbing, the fact that she was fully prepared to inflict pain on him, or the fact that he seemed fully prepared to receive it.

"Go on, then," he urged. Impatient, resigned, expectant.

"You're as crazy as your father," she told him, her eyes wide.

"Do it." A sharp dig of his thumb into her captured, right wrist, re-enforced his command.

Damn him. If he wanted pain, then by God, she'd give it him. Her hand flexed over the dark bruise. She couldn't stop it from shaking as she squeezed lightly, once, and then stopped. He was braced for further pain. His whole body tensed in anticipation and his lips had thinned. Her pale fingers stood out in horrible contrast against the bruising.

A terrible understanding overtook her, and her hand went slack.

"What's the matter with you?" he hissed. His eyes promising all sorts of violence they hadn't previously covered.

"Follow through, you uptight bitch. DO IT!"

She dropped her hand and turned her face away, not wanting him to see her expression. He didn't have to, though.

"Hermione!" he took hold of her chin and forced her to look at him.

"I can't..." she said, hating how weak and pathetic she had become when he was concerned. "I can't!"

"Why?" he demanded. His eyes searched every inch of her face for an answer. Hermione was struck by the realisation that he was almost hungry to hear the one thing from her, that would make him even more angry.

"Because I can't hurt you! Is that so unbelievable?" she exclaimed.

It apparently was. If she thought she had seen exactly how cold he could be, she was mistaken. Her admission transformed him. The only positive thing to come out of it was that all the anger drained from his face. What was left was slightly worse, though.

He shook his head, as if denial was protection. "It was a mistake for me to come here today. I...I apologize."

Hermione stared at him as if he'd grown a second head.

"I don't see any reason for us to meet again until we go to London on the weekend," he said, coolly. "I'll let you know when we have to leave. Just make sure you have an excuse to be away."

It was like the culmination of a business meeting. He released her so abruptly she slumped back against the edge of the tub.

Draco didn't once look at her as he hurriedly dressed, while soaking wet, and left the bathroom as if the fires of Hell were licking at his heels.


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

Harry settled back into an armchair and slowly sipped his hot, milky tea. He was trying to ignore the fact that his head felt like it was being steadily grinded by a mortar and pestle.

"Sugar?" Snape asked, with barely leashed irritation. What he really meant to say was, "Why are you still here?"

"No thanks," Harry mumbled back. After the three hour long, Occlumency exam Snape had just put him through, talking hurt. Drinking tea hurt.

He rested his mug on a stack of books that looked older than Dumbledore and thought about the upcoming weekend.

Unfortunately, thinking hurt too.

But Harry wasn't about to tell Snape that. Too much opportunity for insult.

It had been their final lesson for the year and Snape had put Harry through his paces, all the while taking down rapid notes as required by Dumbledore. Snape's contribution to the exercise had been evil smirks and annoying tut-tuts every time Harry lost his focus and made a mistake.

The mistakes were few and far between, however, much to their combined amazement. All in all, Harry had done remarkably well and they both knew this.

Not that Snape was likely to offer up any words of praise. Harry figured it was enough that the man didn't insult him to death at every lesson. After three years of private coaching, they had apparently come to an accord.

Harry would refrain from calling him a 'miserable old, git' or anything to do with the words 'bat' and 'dungeons', while Snape would steadfastly avoid mentioning James Potter. So far the score was three to eighteen, with Snape in the clear, insult lead. It made Harry smile to think of this, even if it was childish and trivial.

"The next time I advise you to take a Headache Draught before you begin, I trust that you'll listen," snapped Snape. He was doing something noisy at his desk. Breathing, probably.

Harry's head couldn't take much of that, even. His brain felt like a wrung out dishrag. "I don't like taking headache potions. They mess with my concentration," was Harry's reply. It was more groan than speech.

Snape put down his quill. "Potter, a flea jumping off the back of a decrepit dog in a Calcutta alley could affect your concentration. That being said, your control is much improved this evening than it was during our lesson last week."

Not that again, thought Harry. The man really would not let the bloody thing go. Harry's insubordination towards Lupin after that fateful Wednesday in the forest had been the talk of the school for a day or so, but only Snape and Hermione seemed intent on nagging Harry about it.

Also, the insult score was now three to nineteen. Go Snape.

"That thing with Lupin is none of your business, Professor. I'll thank you to please stop mentioning it." There. Never let it be said that Harry Potter never minded his Ps and Qs.

"Think again," Snape began. Harry could feel a monologue coming.

"It is very much my business as an Occlumency instructor, considering how such 'things' tend to affect your concentration. I couldn't care less about your personal life, but you must find some way stop that head of yours from leaking 'poor wounded me' thoughts into the metaphysical void every time you have a little spat with someone. Any Legilimens worth half his salt could use such an opportunity when your mental barriers are weakened!"

The Old Bat was right, unfortunately. That was the ever present problem wasn't it? The fact that Voldemort had once been able to insert his disgusting, evil, scaly presence into Harry's pre-Occlumency trained head and had taken a sticky look around.

It was mental rape, pure and simple and Harry was going to kill the bastard for it.

He was also going to kill the bastard for roughly sixty-three other reasons as well. It was good to keep track of those sorts of things. Kept the concept of vendetta more interesting, in Harry's opinion.

Snape was apparently done with the marking massacre of his second years' Potions homework. He left his desk and started fiddling about with vials and jars at his personal storage cupboard.

It was remarkable how Snape could make a person feel like they were entirely invisible and of no apparent consequence, while at the same time making said person acutely aware that they were intruding and very much uninvited.

Feeling mulish, Harry tried to read the worn, yellowing labels on some of the jars in the cupboard, but his vision was terrible and his head was still too achy for him to want to put his glasses back on.

Castle rumour had it that Hogwart's Potions Professor made black market love potions in his spare time in order to supplement his meagre teacher's wages. True, from the looks of things the man lived a somewhat basic existence, but how else could he afford such high quality robes in like three dozen different shades of black?

Good robes were expensive, as Draco Malfoy liked to casually point out to Ron whenever the insufferable git had the chance.

The thought of Severus Snape slaving away with meticulous care and attention over a love potion was worth a guffaw and a knee slap at the very least.

"Mend your rift with Lupin or take to wearing a lead helmet the next time the two of you have a quarrel."

Harry raised an eyebrow and hoped that Snape had not been trying to read his mind just then. "Er, would the helmet help?"

"Nothing will help that head of hair," Snape said, so dryly that his voice ought to have crackled.

He poured whatever he had been mixing into a juice glass and handed it to Harry without much ado. The contents looked like they had come from the aforementioned, imagined, wet, dish rag.

"Drink it. It's for your head."

Harry swilled the murky, grey liquid and tried to look unconcerned. "What is it?" he asked, unable to keep the suspicion out of his voice.

Snape rolled his eyes. "If I were trying to kill you, you dithering imbecile, I would have done it by now and in a less implicating fashion."

Harry nodded and simultaneously updated the insult score to three-to-twenty. "Hermione said as much."

Mention of Hermione seemed to cause Snape to frown more than usual, as if she was a niggling problem of some sort that Snape hadn't been thinking about that evening until Harry had brought it up.

Harry might have asked Snape about too, it if it weren't for a knock at the door. It was Lupin who stuck his head into the room and smiled his familiar, genial smile. "Good evening, Severus. I was wondering if I might have a quick word." He spotted Harry seated in the chair, not looking at all surprised to find him there. "Hello Harry. Lesson going well?"

"Yeah," said Harry, smiling tightly. He couldn't understand why he was still angry with Lupin, though he was starting to think that it might have had something to do with the fact that the man was impossible to infuriate.

Although, why exactly Harry wanted to get Lupin angry was anybody's guess.

"Fine. Get out, Potter," Snape said, tiredly.

Harry was already starting to feel the effects of the potion. The pain in his head was lessening and he was now feeling pleasantly sleepy. And hungry. Perhaps a detour to the kitchens was in order...

"When will I know how I went on that test?" Harry asked. He was eager for Snape to provide Dumbledore with a favourable report of Harry's ever-improving Occlumency abilities.

Snape looked down his considerable nose at Harry. "When I decide to tell you. _Good night_, Potter."

"Night," Harry called out, his eyelids dropping. He trod over Lupin's foot on his way out and seemed too sleepy to notice.

Lupin waited until the door was shut, waited some more, and then stepped outside the room to glance down the dark, deserted hallway.

He sniffed lightly at the air.

Snape folded his arms as he sat on the edge of his desk. "May I ask what you're doing?"

"Harry's got his father's invisibility cloak. Did you know that?" was Lupin's cryptic reply. "I won't feel bad for telling you now since the boy's just about finished with his schooling."

"Yes. The Headmaster only informed me of that belatedly useful piece of information at the start of this year, after espousing some nonsense about a statute of limitations on when a student may still be punished long after an act has been committed. I had a feeling, of course, which is why I like to shoot random Impedimentas into the darkness whenever I feel I'm not alone."

It might have been a joke, except that it was Snape who had said it. Lupin's hazel eyes were crinkled with amusement as he sat in the chair previously occupied by Harry. "Do you really?"

Snape stared at him. "You've had your 'few words' already, Lupin. What else can I do for you?"

"Don't you ever get tired of being so bloody disagreeable all the time?"

"Not in the least," Snape smoothly replied. "It's less annoying that perpetual affability, I'm sure you'll agree."

Lupin was not offended. Like Harry, he was used to Snape's acerbic ways. "Perhaps a nip or two of that most excellent cognac you keep in that fortress of a desk of might ease your ah, annoyance?"

Looking dour, Snape retrieved the cognac and poured the remainder of the nearly empty decanter into two cut crystal tumblers. He handed the glass to Lupin in much the same manner he had done with Harry.

The Defence Professor drew in a slow breath. "I'm here about Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger." He leaned forward in his seat and gave Snape an almost predatory look. "And I have the feeling that you know exactly what I'm talking about."

Snape's lips thinned. So Lupin knew. Plus Lucius, Borgin and the tattooist, that brought the grand total to seven people.

"It's Fida Mia. They undertook the spell on the night of the Seventh Year graduation celebration."

"Bloody hell!" Lupin exclaimed, sloshing a dash of brandy on his trousers . "Of all the stupid things to do!"

"It's not entirely irreversible," Snape added.

"Isn't it? Fida Mia is well known for its staying power…"

"There are ways. None of them pleasant. They went to see Lucius over that weekend."

Lupin's head snapped up. "You're joking? Hermione _willingly_ went to see Lucius Malfoy in the man's house?"

Snape ignored the question because it was rhetorical. "The house belongs to Draco now, more so than his father. Lucius advised them to seek assistance from Borgin."

"Borgin! Good lord. Oh, this just gets better and better." Lupin sighed. He sank bank into the chair.

The two men sipped their cognac in moody silence for some minutes. "I trust you've been keeping an eye on them," Lupin eventually asked.

"Yes."

"Does the old man know?"

"I have no reason to suspect that he does at this stage."

Lupin tapped a finger on the rim of his tumbler. "I think it's safe to work with the assumption that he doesn't know. He's been abroad a fair bit these past weeks.

Snape snorted, "That's an understatement. Fawkes has been _pining_."

"This is the last thing Hermione needs right now," Lupin commented.

"I assure you that this new development has not exactly been ideal for my misguided godson either. Most especially when you consider Arthur Weasley's insane notion to have that boy turn spy," Snape sneered.

Lupin shook his greying head. "I honestly don't know what's got into Arthur lately."

Snape scoffed. "Allow me to enlighten you. It's called _power_."

"Yes, but this is Arthur Wealsey we're talking about. I'm inclined to think this latest strategy owes more to bad advisors rather than bad Minister."

"It's the same thing. That parasite Coon is the latest in a long string of bad decisions."

There was another lengthy moment of silence during which both men reflected on the trials and tribulations of magical politics.

This time, it was Snape who broke the silence.

"Lupin, how did you know?"

"About our mismatched lovebirds?" Lupin rolled his eyes. It ought to have been an odd gesture coming from him, but Snape had known Lupin for a long time. "Apart from the fact that those two have been making calf eyes at each other since last year?"

"Apart from that, yes."

"I could _smell_ the magic on them, Severus," Lupin confessed. "Sounds incredibly crude, but it's true. Keep in mind that I was in a greenhouse with more than a dozen other students on a hot summer's afternoon. That's one powerful, old enchantment they've grappled with."

'Grapple' probably wasn't the best word to use. Lupin cleared his throat, looking mildly amused at the image it conjured up. He took another thoughtful sip from his tumbler. His expression could best be described as resigned wistfulness.

"Hermione and Draco, eh?" Lupin shook his head, almost as if he were trying to jiggle the revelation in his mind into something resembling logic. "Can't deny they make an interesting pair. Argumentative, but definitely interesting,"

"They make an exceedingly _dangerous_ pair," the Potions Master corrected.

"Dangerous for whom exactly?"

Snape decided that that was a stupid question for a smart man to ask. "For them. For those around them who have a stake in their respective destinies. For Potter, who relies on that know-it-all Gryffindor more than he would care to admit. For He Who Must Not Be Named, who would at the very least be interested in the possibilities from such an unlikely union between old blood and a rising, young elite."

"But Hermione is a Muggle," Lupin said."Surely he'd disapprove."

"Any offspring from the union would be only half so," Snape elaborated. "Like Voldemort. And if he thought he could control Draco to any extent, Miss Granger might not factor into his long term plans regarding her new family.

"I'll have to add 'Dooming Young Love' to the hundred other reasons for why I'd like to wring that scaly, old bastard's neck," Lupin declared, in a very un-Lupinlike manner. Harry would have gawked if he'd been there.

Lupin tossed back the remainder of his brandy and handed the empty glass to Snape. "Thanks for the nightcap."

"Nobody keeps score any more," Snape said, somewhat distantly.

Lupin smiled before he shut the door behind him. "Oh, you'd be surprised."


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter Twenty-Three **

**[A notice, pinned to each of the four, House Notice Boards.]**

_Dear Students _

_Please be advised that the school Bludgers will be put through their annual servicing this Friday between the hours of eight-seventeen a.m. and two-seventeen p.m. As always, the Quidditch Pitch is strictly out of bounds for all students except the prefects who have been assigned to the area. Team Captains are to ensure that their players are aware of this restriction. Any student caught loitering in the immediate vicinity of the Pitch will receive an automatic deduction of twenty House points._

_Thank you for your co-operation,_

_Madam Hooch._

**[Thursday morning Owl Post, before decryption] -**

_To: Gertrude Merrybones, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry _

_Dearest Gertrude,_

_Sorry to hear about your continuing health woes. As per your request, I've attached Gran's recipe. Hope it does the trick. Write back soon to tell me how it all goes._

_Love and kisses, your sister,_

_Prudence_

**[Grandma Merrybones' Neverfail Bran Muffin Recipe, after decryption] -**

_Draco, _

_Thank you for your message. I apologize for the delayed response, but your encryption spell took a few days to unravel._

_The spell is a piece of genius. You really should think about making an application to the Magical Patents office if your inheritance doesn't pan out._

_To the matter at hand, I have undertaken initial investigations into the nature of your dilemma and have shortlisted an individual whom I believe can provide a solution, at a cost, of course. Keeping the matter strictly confidential has been rather tricky, considering the legal difficulties. I have included an estimate, below, for the Expert Consultation from the individual in question. Please let me know as soon as possible if you do not find the terms agreeable._

_We will meet at the Cobblestone Inn, Knockturn Alley, Saturday evening. I would advise you to take a room at the Inn, under the names of Mr and Mrs. Merrybones. I will come to fetch you at the allotted time._

_Kind Regards,_

_E. R. Borgin._

**

_Thursday evening. _It was an ideal evening for a walk, Tonks decided. Her shift, which comprised of a rather dull, up and down patrol of the Hogwarts trail to Hogsmeade, had ended ten minutes prior. She spent a further ten minutes chatting to the equally bored Rufus Quartermaine, who had shown up to relieve her.

Tonks had the option of meeting Hagrid for a pint or two at the Three Broomsticks, or visiting Lupin to borrow yet another Muggle detective novel (the man's secret passion), but she settled for the walk instead.

Hogwarts Castle may have been ancient as the hills, but there was always something new to discover every time she visited. Case in point was the multitude of Humming Hydrangea bushes that Professor Sprout had put in the previous spring. It had taken a day or two before Tonks realised that the faint humming noise in the background was not due to the minor injury she had received when she hit her head on a low banister in the Library, but was in fact the local flora.

There were other additions to the Castle: new rooms shifted from somewhere to somewhere else and the increasingly infamous 'refreshments tray' in the Prefects Bath. Other new additions were not so innocuous, unfortunately.

The team stationed at Hogwarts had had a meeting earlier in the evening to discuss the sheer lack of _nothing_ that made up their daily reports. Moody had received intelligence which suggested that the Dark Lord's most recent Recruiter was operating in the area, but since the sighting of the Dark Mark over Hogsmeade the previous Wednesday, there hadn't been so much as a whiff of evil-doing.

The recent, highly entertaining Quidditch match between the Hogwarts 'School Team' and the Aurors had been a welcomed breather from the tension that hung in the air like damp rot.

And yet, the sense that something wasn't quite right, remained. Quartermaine swore that he had a pinch or two of Seer's blood and was adamant that he could feel impending nastiness. Professor Trelawney was inclined to agree, but this was neither new nor especially reliable.

Everyone was feeling it - a nervousness which bordered on dread. End of year at Hogwarts had not exactly been quiet or uneventful over the past six years and so why should this particular year be any different?

_Because we're ready, this time, that's why_, Tonks thought.

Albus Dumbledore would sooner cut off his own arm, than allow one of his wards to succumb to the Dark Lord's seductively offered traps. And they were traps, no two ways about it. There were always a handful of students on the 'To Watch' list. Students who seemed markedly more displaced than others; disillusioned, disempowered and very, very angry with the world.

There were currently four from Slytherin, three from Ravenclaw and one from Gryffindor. Professor Sprout had been extremely relieved that none of her brood had made the list that year. It wasn't so much to do with a sense of pride at her proven skills as a mentor, but rather the fact that Hufflepuffs made for terrifyingly, single-minded (make that bloody-minded, Tonks mentally corrected), Voldemort supporters. It came down to their innate sense of unquestionable loyalty once their oath was given. One less Hufflepuff Death Eater was always a blessing.

Feeling agitated at her increasingly depressing thoughts, Tonks attempted to create a breeze by picking up her pace. Her shoes made a crunching noise over the gravel as she walked along the Castle's eastern wall, humming hydrangeas to her left, the forest to her right. She took a little cobbled pathway that skirted behind the thick shrubbery and continued along this for several more minutes, eventually coming to the patch of patrol area that belonged to Donald Bligh. Or was it Astrid Huggins'? Moody was always cranky with her for not remembering who was stationed where.

It was Bligh. She knew this because she nearly walked into her colleague.

There was a problem, apparently. Bligh was speaking heatedly to someone who was standing in the shadows.

"_Lumos_." Tonks illuminated the situation. "Don, may I be of assistance?" she asked, coming to stand beside her colleague.

She was startled to note that it was Draco Malfoy whom Bligh had been talking to. The light clearly identified him. Her erstwhile cousin was dressed in dark jeans, trainers and a dark, long sleeved, shirt. The boy looked dressed for skulking.

It didn't surprise her that some students were so unmindful of the dangers. Just the day before, they had caught a Ravenclaw making his casual way to the library after curfew. Hogwarts was home, after all, and it was never easy to tell a teenager that they had to remain in their rooms after dinner.

Her colleague looked put out to see her. "Found this one sneaking about in the dark. Says he's planning to meet up with a girl."

Most likely Bligh was aiming to give Malfoy an over-the-top hiding for being caught wondering the grounds after curfew. Tonks sighed. Quidditch-earned grudges had the capacity to last longer than stink pellet stench on skin.

"That'll be a deduction of House points as well, Malfoy," said Bligh, with a great deal of unprofessional gloating. He pulled out his logbook, made a note of the encounter, flipped it shut and then turned his attention back to his victim.

Malfoy remained completely calm, bored looking, almost. "Fine," he said, holding out his pale arm. "Slap on the wrist, points taken and I'll be on my way, then?"

It was at that moment that three things occurred to Tonks, though perhaps if they had not, the outcome of the encounter might have been drastically different for all concerned.

The first point of interest was that Malfoy gave no indication that he knew her, despite their introduction as cousins, the week before. The second thing was that she would have expected Draco Malfoy to have argued his supreme, infallible, divine right to have been wherever he wanted to be, at whatever time he bloody well wanted.

She had almost been looking forward to his explanation.

This then led to the third, more alarming suspicion that she and Bligh were not currently speaking to Draco Malfoy at all. There was something about him which felt about as right as an orange juice milk shake.

She decided to call Fake Draco's bluff. As Bligh blithered on about not being paid to baby sit, Tonks turned her wand to the imposter.

"You will stand down," she ordered, her wand aimed at the stranger's chest.

"Tonks…er, what are you doing?" Bligh asked, looking startled.

"I don't think this is Malfoy," she informed, without looking at him.

"Christ Almighty," Bligh muttered. He may have been a bit of a bully and a hot head, but she was counting on him not being slow-witted. He didn't immediately disappoint. His own wand was produced and was now at level with Tonk's, twin Lumos spells in action.

"I suppose _you_ can tell," he inquired, idly.

"We're about to find out." The tip of her wand grazed the imposter's chest. "Who are you?"

The stranger smiled. It was Draco's familiar knowing half smile, half leer, and yet it was so not. Tonks could not recall the real Draco ever needing to show that much teeth.

As per capture and contain protocol, she moved to walk around the soon-to-be captive, leaving Bligh to disarm the imposter. She was three steps behind him, poised to Stun if she needed to.

"Who else would I be if not I'm Draco Malfoy?" came the reply.

Same drawl, same articulation. It was uncanny, and very, very well done.

"Well?" Bligh called out to his colleague. "I'd hate to be told off twice in the week for assaulting the same student, on or off the pitch," he muttered.

Tonks tilted her head to the side and observed her would-be cousin closely from behind. "Not Malfoy," she said, after a moment. "Take him."

"If you have a wand on you, throw it down _now_!" Bligh shouted.

The imposter put his hand into his jacket pocket took out his wand and tossed it to Bligh, smirking all the while.

"You're making a terrible mistake, Auror," the imposter said. "Think twice before doing anything you'll regret."

Bligh lifted his wand to aim at the imposter's face. A point-blank Stupefy to the head was known to cause irreversible damage. "On the ground now, or we do this the hard way. I'm not asking again!"

The eerie smile did not waver. "Have you ever lost someone dear to you, Auror?"

"On the ground you little shit, before I kick your teeth in!" Bligh growled.

"A friend, parent, a sibling? A partner perhaps?" the question hung in the air.

Tonks sensed a different kind of trouble brewing. "He's throwing you off, Don. Bind the boy and be done with it. I'm about to send a flare."

The stranger casually glanced over his shoulder at Tonks, as if just noticing she was there. "Huggins, isn't that the name of his girlfriend? Pretty, blonde Auror. Blue eyes, petite. Hell of a Chaser."

A quick glance at Bligh's face showed that the insinuations were hitting their mark.

"Astrid, that's it," the imposter carried on, this time addressing Bligh directly. "Pretty name for a pretty girl. She's got rounds this evening, too, doesn't she? I bet the two of you like meeting up for a drink after her shift ends."

And then the sinister smile was gone. In its place was undiluted malice. The cajoling tone of voice disappeared too. What remained was not recognizably Draco, in any way.

"If you walk away now, Auror, I'll tell my people not to gut her like a pig, after they have their way with her. We'll string up her remains like confetti all over the grounds. It'll take weeks for you to put that gory puzzle back together again. Have you ever seen the damage that five, highly depraved individuals can inflict on something so small and fragile?"

That was all it took. It didn't matter if the threat was empty, or that Bligh had eleven years of Auror training and service behind him, which meant that he should have known better.

"Donald, _no_!" Tonks called out, too late.

With a snarl, Bligh lunged at the imposter seconds before Tonks fired a stunning spell. Bligh tackled the stranger's midsection, causing Tonk's Stupefy to pass through the air, hitting a tree in the distance. The pair struggled on the ground for a moment, but it was all the distraction the stranger needed to gain the upper hand.

He rolled away from Bligh with a remarkable quickness, reached into his pocket to remove something wrapped in wads of paper, and hurled whatever it was at Bligh.

Now offered a clear shot, Tonks' second Stupefy did not miss. It hit the stranger, chest on, and the he collapsed backwards in the dirt, out cold.

The thrown object was a glass ball, not much larger than a man's closed fist. Bligh grunted at the contact of cold glass smashing against his arm. Dark, smoking liquid seemed to be burning through his uniform. Something shiny tumbled down his sleeve, almost in slow motion from the thick, wrecked glass.

Transfixed, the dazed Auror flicked at the shiny item with his hand.

And promptly vanished.

Tonks cried out in frustration. The cursed thing was a Portkey! Moody was going to break something when he found out.

Grimly, she fired a signal flare into the air, before crouching down to take a closer look at the unconscious imposter. At the moment, the captive was their only link to Bligh's location. The stranger, whomever it was, was lying on his side. Looking at him, if indeed, it was a he, was like looking at a mirage.

Tonks was thus able to confirm her earlier suspicion that it was not Polyjuice at work, but a Metamorphmagus, like her.

And the implications of _that_, were many and extraordinary.

Within minutes, the stranger would shift to his original form, as Metamorphmagi were not able to sustain their shift unless they were in a conscious state.

"Who are you?" Tonks whispered. There was nothing to be done but wait for back-up to arrive. She hoped it would not be Astrid.

"Someone who's going to be _extremely_ pissed off with you when he wakes up," said a voice behind her.

Tonks whirled around to face whomever had just snuck up on her. She managed to get a good look at the person who clipped her on the side of the head. Her last thought before she slumped to the ground was that Dumbledore might end up losing that metaphorical arm after all.

**

_Friday._

God, he hated the morning. Daytime made a mockery of how absolutely crappy his life had become. Sunshine was too cheerful and optimistic, spreading warmth that never seemed to reach him.

Draco refused to open his eyes, not even when his conditioned body clock told him it was seven-thirty am and time to get dressed to go upstairs for breakfast, where five hundred pairs of eyes would gawk at him for a whole variety of reasons he could never help.

The good thing was that he had five pillows in his bed, and he was not afraid to use them. Draco piled the lot of it over his head, secured this makeshift buffer zone with a sheet, and then continued to ignore Daytime.

Footsteps went past his door. That was the annoying thing about not living in the boys' dorm anymore. Seventh year prefects got their own rooms, yes, but the rooms were located in a communal area, accessible to anyone who had need of a prefect.

The faster, more reckless footsteps belonged to the younger Slytherins, who still found some excitement in a new day at Hogwarts and an elf-cooked breakfast better than anything their mums could make (though not many would ever admit this).

The slower, steadier footsteps were those of the seniors, no doubt. Slytherins were generally not Morning People, but Draco suspected that had more to do with age rather than Sorting.

Uninterrupted sleep was a luxury, and if it could be bought or traded, Draco might have purchased a whole year's worth from one of the rosy-cheeked, bright eyed, spring-in-step Hufflepuffs who always looked bushytailed no matter how stupid life got.

A particular progression of noisy footsteps happened to pause directly outside his door. _Go away Panse. Not interested in breakfast at the moment._ There was a bit of a kerfuffle in the corridor, which meant that whomever was about to get their head bitten off, was at least thinking twice about it.

The handle turned.

_Did I remember to lock the door?_

The door creaked opened.

_Apparently not._

"Draco!" whispered someone who was not Pansy, Millicent, Goyle or Blaise, or for that matter anyone else who was permitted to be in his room.

It was Carmen Meliflua, fourth year Slytherin vixen, and she was about to regret being born.

"Draco, please! You have to come quick! I think Tandish Dodders is about to kill himself!"

Fuck you, world, thought Draco, as he opened his eyes with a very deep sigh.

**

Honestly, he was dealing with a bunch of monkeys. Perhaps bananas would elicit a more logical response from the slack-jawed group of students outside his door, because simple English didn't seem to be working.

Salazar Slytherin would be turning in his grave to know what had become of his illustrious House.

"If _someone_ doesn't tell me what the hell is going on in the next ten seconds, I'm using Cruciatus," Draco threatened.

That was not the smartest thing to say to a bunch of nervous youngsters. Carmen Meliflua, easily the most self assured monkey in the troupe, started crying.

Draco shut the door in their faces and hurriedly pulled on his school pants and a crumpled, T-shirt which seemed too small to have ever belonged to him. A sobbing Carmen (told to wait outside) was able to fill him on the main details, albeit in a halting wet and incredibly shrill manner.

Two nose-blows later, the problem stood thus:

The much put upon Tandish Dodders, otherwise known as 'Tadpole', had chosen to ignore all the posted warnings for students to stay clear of the Quidditch Pitch that day. More than a dozen school Bludgers were having the bugs cleaned out of them.

The idiot claimed to have been dared by someone to sprint from one end of the pitch to the other, and was in the process of doing just that.

Draco paused in the act of buttoning his trousers. "Why is this _my_ problem? Where the fuck is Zabini?"

Carmen was worrying on her lower lip. "He's in a meeting with Professor McGonagall. So is Hermione Granger, or we would have asked him to-"

"Yes, yes, _fine_," Draco snapped, running a hand through his hair. Mention of the two-faced, Tart of Gryffindor did not improve his mood. Also, what Carmen was doing with her lip was nearly identical to what Granger did every time she was about to tell him something he wasn't going to like.

"Is that lack wit still alive or what?"

"Last time we checked, yes," confirmed Carmen. "You have to do something. It'll mean _points_ if the teachers find out. And we're in the _lead_ this year," she pleaded.

"Out of my way." Draco threw his room door open, catching one slow-to-move sixth year in the foot and not giving a damn about it. He started stalking towards the Common Room exit, but then paused to glare at Carmen. "You will stop your snivelling," he ordered.

A Slytherin did not appear in front of the rest of the school in hysterics. Carmen raised large, wet, trembling eyes at him. That too, reminded him of Hermione. Draco seriously contemplated finding a bag and making Carmen wear it over her head.

"I'm sorry. It's just that it's my fault he did this. He likes me you see, and well…I'm always horrid to him."

What she meant to say was that _they_ were always horrid to him. Carmen, Draco and the rest of Slytherin House.

If Dodders got squished to death on the Pitch that morning, it would be all their faults.

Draco felt like throwing up his hands. Carmen happened to be a Slytherin with a conscience.

Oh, yes he knew exactly what _that_ felt like.


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

_When you've seen one dungeon, you've seen 'em all,_ was Tonks' estimation of her current digs.

There was the pre-requisite darkness, the dank, chilly stone walls with water dripping down a gaping crack or two, rusted iron bars on the small, slanted window just beneath the ceiling, enormous rotting wooden doors that might have given a troll problems and the odd, weirdo dungeon employee.

The employee's name was not 'Igor' or anything so clichéd. It was, in fact, Bob, and was quite disappointing in its ordinariness.

Tonks figured that she had only been unconscious for about six hours or so, judging from the early sunlight that came through the tiny window. In the short space of time since she had awakened, she had come to the conclusion that Bob was probably a wannabe Death Eater who didn't quite have the mental credits required for field work.

He wasn't answering any of her questions. Given her current circumstances, all she could do was engage in a bit of strategic taunting.

"You're a pretty one," said Bob, as he pushed a wooden bowl of broth through the slot at the bottom of the door.

She suspected it was Bob who had stripped her off her Auror uniform and put her into the sackcloth shift she was now wearing. Now that was forward planning. Her captors were obviously eager for her to experience the full dungeon-prisoner package immediately.

"Thanks." Tonks picked up the bowl and before Bob had the chance to move away, she pushed it through the second slot at the top of the door, emptying the lukewarm contents of the bowl over Bob's bald head. Pity the food wasn't scalding hot.

"You bitch! You wait 'til I get my hands on you!" was the predictable response.

Tonks let a few seconds pass. She even tapped her foot on the floor. There was a scuffling noise on the other side of the door, followed by mumbled curses and then footsteps. Tonks counted eight footfalls until Bob presumably reached the dungeon exit and left through another door.

Eight steps were not so very far to freedom. She filed that bit of information away.

"Who is holding me here? Where's Bligh?!" she demanded, again. It was important to know if there were other Bobs in the vicinity. "He'd better be alive!"

Tonks kicked at the door in frustration. It appeared that she was well and truly alone. Her foot throbbed, but the pain alleviated some of her nervousness. She had managed to catch a glimpse of the Hogwarts student that had assissted Fake-Draco by knocking her out.

She wasn't scared.

Yet.

**

At the most basic level, bludgers were charmed bits of leather, sand and cotton stuffing, be-spelled to target Quidditch players _during_ a game.

The charms used were not unlike those utilized on the Snitch, enabling it to continually avoid capture. This was minor, mechanical magic and it was common knowledge that the spells used had the potential to become corrupted after a period of time. Which was why Madam Hooch insisted on servicing all of the School's Quidditch equipment at least once a year, for the safety of her players.

In the absence of more precise programming, the bludgers would hone in on anything that moved on the pitch. In previous years, it was not unusual to find squashed rodents and sometimes birds, flattened into the sand. It was also not unusual to find Hagrid on the pitch after the bludger servicing, collecting these deceased specimens, ostensibly to feed his pet of the month.

That particular morning, a small crowd of students were gathered in one corner of the pitch to watch the unfolding spectacle of Tandish Dodders, a fourth year Slytherin, attempting to avoid having his head mashed into a pulp.

Draco emerged from the Castle and sprinted up to the first Slytherin he recognized. It was Edward Knox from sixth year, Draco's best customer when it came to selling off old assignments.

"Tell me."

Knox looked incredibly relieved to see Draco. "Some early bird Ravenclaw was the first one to spot him. Weasley and Parkinson are on rounds this morning and Parkinson's just left to get Madam Hooch. Weasley's been trying to blow up the Bludgers that get too close, but he's a terrible shot. I tried using _Finite_ to stop them, but that isn't working either. Basically, we have no idea how to actually turn them off," he finished.

Draco and Knox, with the kind of detachment only Slytherins could manage, watched Dodders throw himself to the ground, narrowly avoiding a hit to the base of his spine.

"Has anyone actually asked him to stop?"

"Close one!" Knox exclaimed. He turned his attention back to Draco. "_Of course_ we asked him to stop. He's ignoring us. Also, he's a third of the way through so we figure there's still a chance he might make it…"

Another bludger swooped down past Dodders' ear. The crowd gasped and several of the younger girls covered their eyes. Knox's estimation of Dodders' chances was not too far off the mark. The Bludger Run had been attempted by a few, dim witted souls over the years, but they had all been sixth or seventh year dim wits.

Dodders was small, short of leg, quivery of disposition and not likely to last much longer without some sort of assistance.

Knox glanced towards the stands. "Weasley's coming over."

Ron was indeed jogging towards them, looking like an angry, finger-pointing, paper-waving, lobster. He came to a halt when he was nose to nose with Draco.

"You have some nerve, you sadistic creep!"

For a moment, Draco thought that Granger had actually told Weasley about what had transpired in the Prefect's Bathroom, but then, the Gryffindor prefect thrust the bit of paper he had been holding into Draco's chest.

"I know you Slytherins have your own sick, little rituals and rites of passage rubbish, but this is just plain wrong!"

With Knox peering over Draco's shoulder, the two Slytherins read the note.

_Prove your worth on the pitch. This morning. _

_One end to the other. No stopping. No turning back. I'll be watching. _

_Malfoy_

Draco's eyes were stormy when he looked up at Ron. "Where did you get this?" he demanded, whisper soft.

The quality of his voice made Ron turn from furious to suspicious and then, to appalled. "It was in the stands. Next to the boy's book bag," Ron informed. He rubbed his nose. "You're going to tell me that you didn't write that, aren't you?"

Knox answered the question. "Wow. I think someone's trying to set you up, Malfoy."

"Badly," Draco agreed, pocketing the evidence. Another student joined them. It was Ernie McMillan, Hufflepuff's equivalent of Pansy Parkinson, which meant to say that he was an enormous gossip.

"Where on earth is Madam Hooch? Parkinson left ten minutes ago. Should I go and get Professor Snape?" Ernie asked.

"Poor Tadpole. Death by Snape is going to be worse than death by bludgers," Knox muttered.

"Finding Snape would take too long," Ron told them. "He's uh, busy."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "How do you know he's busy?"

"He's with Harry."

"Doing what?" Knox and Draco asked, at the same time.

Ron went redder. "Harry told me he had appointment to see Snape this morning to discuss the results of some...ongoing project, is all."

"Great," Draco sighed. "I was just about to ask where Saint Potter was. This is right up his alley."

"Uh, lads," Ernie interjected, "I don't mean to interrupt, but I don't think your boy is going to survive the next five minutes."

The bludgers in question were currently circling Dodders, looking like large, misshapen vultures. Every so often, one would break off from the pack and hurtle threateningly towards the crouching Slytherin.

Draco rolled his shoulders, taking a quick moment to cast a suspicious, knowing look to the heavens. "I'll handle this."

With his wand in hand, and with the rest of them watching, Draco stalked towards the middle of the pitch, his mood as dark as his eyes. The bludgers started visibly twitching with the addition of yet another moving target on the field.

"If you don't come back, can I have all your seventh year Charms assignments?" Knox called out, only to be glared at by Ron.

At ten paces from the edge of the pitch, Draco paused and put a hand up to shield his eyes against the bright, morning sunshine. He squinted at the boy on the field and might have counted to five if he thought that would help things.

"TADPOLE! YOU GREASY, DISGUSTING, SLIMY WASTE OF SPERM! YOU COME BACK HERE THIS INSTANT OR SO HELP ME I'M GOING TO RIP YOUR DICK OFF AND POST IT TO YOUR MOTHER!"

Dodders was in the process of running from a bludger that seemed to be intent on hobbling him. He executed a rather nimble jump into the air, dropped to the ground heavily and then rolled. The bludger smashed into the sand where Dodders had been moments before, bringing up small dibbets of soil. He staggered to his feet, panting. The boy was still in his pyjamas, for Merlin's sake.

"You're crazy, Malfoy!" Dodders called back. "You're the one that dared me to do this!"

"Use your head you stupid little shit! Would I sign off with my own bloody name?!"

The boy was _finally_ starting to look panicked. Draco had to hand it to him. He had balls, though a worrisome lack of brains.

"You mean you didn't send me that note?"

"No, I didn't write it _or_ send it! Shall I have the castle elves perform interpretive dance in order to get that point across to you!" Draco shouted.

"AHHHHHHH!" Dodders suddenly screamed. He tripped on a bit of upturned soil. Even from where Draco was standing, he could see that the boy had twisted his ankle badly.

"Granger, I hope you're watching," Draco whispered and then bolted towards the howling, prostrate, Dodders.

Four bludgers immediately broke off from the pack and headed towards him. Draco ducked, swerved, stopped running and then continued. It was like tackling an obstacle course from hell. Six years of Seeker training was paying off, though dodging the bludgers on land was markedly trickier than doing it in the air.

He reached Dodders just in time to grab hold of the younger boy's collar and drag him away before he was pummelled into the ground.

"Stay there!" Ron called out. He was leading a group of older students out onto the pitch. They were doing their best to divert or distract the bludgers.

"Can you walk?" Draco asked, gritting his teeth. He looped an arm around Dodders' waist and propped him up.

The plump boy was almost a dead weight and Draco's injured shoulder began to protest. "Try and walk, you twit. If I use _leviosa_, you'll be a floating target. I can't carry you and blast them at the same time!"

"I'll try…" Tadpole gasped as he put more weight on his injured ankle.

They made their way to within five meters of where Ron and the others stood. Ron's freckled face was relieved and jubilant.

"Hurry, you're almost clear!"

_Almost, but not quite._

They would have been perfectly fine had Dodders not stumbled yet again.

Lamenting the fact that they couldn't Apparate within school grounds, Draco hauled the boy up once more, but not before a bludger collided into the back of Draco's knees. Both Slytherins fell over and Draco's wand went flying. The bludger smashed into the earth, not two inches from Draco's head, making a pumpkin sized crater in the ground.

"Cover your head!" Draco ordered. Dodders was too scared to listen. He stared scrambling away towards Ron and the others, on his hands and knees.

A second bludger was gaining altitude. When it reached its zenith, it began heading back towards the ground at high speed, apparently making a beeline for the fourth year. Spells were flying over their heads. Vaguely, Draco noted that Madam Hooch and Professor Flitwick were now on the scene. Some of the other bludgers had already paused harmlessly in mid air, but not the one heading for Dodders.

Draco pushed his hair out of his eyes and spat out the sand and bits of grass that were in his mouth. His wand was quite some distance away. For a brief moment, he contemplated making a mad dash for it.

_Anyone who claims that going to Muggle school these days is dangerous, really ought to attend Hogwarts for a week or so_, Draco decided.

Not stopping to analyse the wisdom (or rather, lack of) of his decision, he leapt to his feet, ran towards Dodders and hurled himself on top of the boy.

Tadpole had just thrown up his breakfast all over himself.

Draco belatedly noted that porridge had apparently been served at breakfast that morning.

**

Hogwarts' Head Boy and Girl were seated in Professor McGonagall's office, currently digesting the dark news that there had been an attack on campus the previous evening and that two Aurors were missing.

Presently, Dumbledore was at the Ministry in talks with Arthur Weasley and his advisors. The school Governors had only just been informed.

One of the missing Aurors was Nymphadora Tonks.

As a direct result, the official seventh year graduation ceremony to be held on the following Wednesday would be cancelled, for what would be the second time in more than nine centuries of Hogwarts' history. Graduating students would be receiving their testamurs via Owl Post. Notices had already been sent to parents to be ready to collect any children who wished to return home early.

Professor McGonagall thus attributed Hermione's sharp gasp and sudden paleness to the awful news. The Head Girl had grasped onto the arm rests of her chair with white knuckled fingers.

"We _will_ re-open, Miss Granger. This is a temporary precaution," the Gryffindor Head of House assured. "After all, this is hardly the first time Hogwarts has faced closure and lived to tell the tale."

"Hermione?" Blaise leaned in towards her, frowning at her erratic breathing. He waved a hand in front of her face, but she didn't seem to notice. She was blinking rapidly, but seeing nothing. "Er, Professor, I don't think she's well."

McGonagall walked around her desk. "Miss Granger, are you alright?"

She wasn't. She was dizzy and short of breath and there was a strange ringing in her ears. Something had happened to Draco...

More questions might have been asked, had the door to McGonagall's office not flown open to reveal Ron, the front of his school shirt soaked with blood. His eyes were wide and utterly frantic.

"Professor…" he wheezed, out of breath. "Please…come quick! I think Draco Malfoy's just been killed!"


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter Twenty-Five**

_Draco stood in the foyer, hidden neatly behind a grandfather clock. The floor was icy and he was barefooted. He waited until the chiming of the clock finished and then listened very carefully for the voices that were coming from the library. _

_His parents were awake, despite the hour, and were obviously having another argument. That was nothing new to Draco, though it was the topic of the argument that had caused him to investigate further. He knew he'd be in trouble if he was caught out of bed, but he decided that he'd risk his father's formidable temper, for George._

_He would risk a lot for George._

_It wasn't until Draco heard his mother say his name, was his curiosity genuinely piqued. He was awake anyway, and in much too much of an excitable state to go back to sleep. The search for George outweighed any other concerns. Poor Toolip had been run ragged accompanying her young charge through the Manor grounds, looking for the dog._

_There was no sign of him anywhere, no matter that Draco had put out the best cuts of meat Chef had to offer and had called and called for the dog until his throat was raw._

"_I won't have it," his father was saying. He was talking in a low, sinister voice which meant that he was passed annoyance and had progressed to anger. It was not wise to be around Lucius when he spoke that softly. Regular people tended to get scared and make hasty retreats. But his mother was not 'regular people'._

_Draco crept down the corridor, past old family portraits, some of which gave him conspiratorial winks. He wanted to smile in return but this was not a happy adventure. George was lost and his parents were angry with each other._

_He hoped one thing had nothing to do with the other._

_The double doors to the library were wide open and candlelight cleaved out into the darkness, lighting the patch of hallway directly outside the doors. It didn't seem odd to Draco that he was not afraid of the dark. Magic was light and he carried it wherever he went, or so Mother had told him. This left no logical reason for fear._

_Draco peeked around the door, taking care to flatten his fringe, lest his parents notice that a bit of messy, bright, blond hair was sticking out around the door. He realised that his toes were probably visible too, and quickly curled them back._

_His mother was pacing the room, still dressed in the airy, silk, scarlet dress robes she had worn to attend a soiree at the Parkinson mansion. She had tucked him into bed six hours before and Draco recalled that she smelled like gardenias that evening. His mum always smelled very nice indeed._

"_You're despicable," said Narcissa. _

_Draco had never heard his mother use that tone on her husband before. He was suddenly more worried for her than he was for George, which was an awful lot of worry for a five year old to cope with all at once._

_Lucius growled and knocked over a chair. It toppled, making a muffled thud noise against the carpeted floor. Draco covered his hand over his mouth to stifle his surprise. Luckily, his parents were in the middle of a full-fledged row and did not hear him._

"_Coddling that boy will not do. Draco needs to learn harsh lessons. He's old enough!"_

_His mother's ice-blue eyes narrowed. "There's plenty of time for him to learn just what kind of life he's had the good fortune of being born into."_

"_Five is old enough to learn that one does not bring mongrel vermin to live under this roof."_

"_Bastard," his mother hissed._

_For a moment, it looked like Lucius was going to let the insult slide. Draco was incredulous. Nobody called his father a 'bastard' – a very, very nasty word you didn't use, unless you wanted to be dragged into a duel – and lived to tell the tale. But then his father very calmly put down the brandy glass he had been holding, walked across to Narcissa and slapped her across the mouth._

_It was the first time Draco had ever seen Lucius lay a hand on Narcissa. What was even more alarming was the fact that his mother's response was to smile. It was a knowing smile showing no surprise at Lucius' treatment of her. She looked like she had already won the argument or had uncovered some previously hidden truth._

_Something in Draco went quite cold and dead at the sight. It occurred to him that the games adults played were so very different from the games that children played._

_This was not something he wanted to see._

_He didn't quite realize that he had done it (his feet had suddenly developed their own mind), but he found himself standing at the entrance of the library, in full light, with his hands balled into fists at his side, and tears running down his face. His father's back was to him, so luckily only Narcissa saw him. She blinked in surprise and then very subtly, shook her head in clear warning. _

_Feeling relieved, and then ashamed of that relief, Draco crept back into the shadows where he shook with fear and suppressed fury._

"_Remember whom you are speaking to," Lucius told his wife, though much of his rage seemed to have gone. He sighed and then reached up to stroke her face. "Remember," he repeated, sounding apologetic, and something else Draco didn't know how to describe._

_More words were spoken. Soft words that Draco did not understand and was not sure he wanted to._

_He suddenly felt like an intruder. A very private moment was taking place._

_His mother was not fazed by his father's change in demeanour. Or then again, it might have been because she knew her son was watching. She pulled away from her husband._

"_I don't love you."_

_Lucius laughed. It was a humourless laugh. "You do. And you hate yourself for it."_

_She smiled thinly. "Severus hates me for it too."_

"_Do not mention the name of that traitor in this house!"_

_Narcissa retrieved her embroidered velvet wrap that was draped across one of the lounges. "He's not going to be like you, you know. I'll see to it myself."_

_Lucius flung his glass into the fireplace, causing the flames to momentarily leap, but he did not respond._

_Narcissa walked to the doors and calmly shut them behind her._

"_And you! What are you doing out of bed?" she demanded, dragging Draco along by his elbow. Her long, honey blonde hair, which had been in an elegant knot before, had come undone. It tumbled down her back, stray tendrils tickling Draco's face._

"_I…I'm looking for George," Draco explained._

_They stopped briefly so that his mother could wrap her shawl around him. "Draco, really. You'll catch cold," she scolded._

_They didn't stop again until Draco was once again in his room. His mother put him into bed again. Toolip, who had been slumped asleep in a chair, continued snoring. Narcissa rolled her eyes at the old creature._

"_I'm sorry you had to see that. Your father isn't in the best of moods tonight, darling." She smoothed his hair, which was lighter in colour than hers and did not curl quite as much._

_Draco's tutors often told him that he had a fine mind for deciphering riddles. A strong mind for logic, they said. Maybe that was why he asked the question._

"_Mother," Draco began, wishing he was as dull witted as Pansy often accused him of being. "Has Father done something with George?"_

_His mother's blue eyes hardened for a moment. She seemed to be deciding on something. And then, she reached into a hidden pocket located in her robes and pulled put a black, leather collar._

"_I'm sorry."_

_There was nothing that could be done. George was obviously gone. Draco's heart felt like a heavy stone, sinking down and down beneath the dark water of one of the old wells in Thimble Creek. _

_He took the collar with a small, shaking hand, but he did not cry, not even when his mother gave him a kiss on the forehead before she said goodnight._

"_Never love anything more than it loves you, Draco," she whispered. "Never be like your father."_

_Or you, Draco wanted to say, but did not. It took him a while but he eventually fell asleep, still wrapped in his mother's shawl and the scent of gardenias._

_Toolip helped him to bury the collar out in the garden the next day._

_**_

He wasn't dead.

Hermione knew this because all she had to do was close her eyes and search for him. He was _there_, somewhere in the back of her mind, breathing and alive, his heart beating steady and strong. He wasn't feeling much of anything, though. Not pain, not annoyance and not that other phantom feeling which was her own presence in his mind.

Therefore, Hermione concluded that Draco was merely unconscious.

In his panic, Ron had obviously reacted to sheer amount of blood from the cut on Draco's forehead.

As the two injured Slytherins were tended by an extremely harried Madam Hooch and Professor Flitwick, Ron had run to fetch the Deputy Headmistress. McGonagall, once recovered from a near heart attack courtesy of Ron, had in turn gone to fetch Snape.

Harry was with Snape at the time and recalled that he had never seen the Potions Master so furious.

"Apart from the time he found you in his Pensieve," Ron reminded, eager to draw attention away from his admittedly amusing over-reaction.

According to Ron, both students had suffered bludger hits to the head and chest, with Draco taking the brunt of the 'assault'. The injuries were not deemed to be lethal by any means, but the boys would be carrying bruises, lumps and in Draco's case, a concussion.

Once informed of the incident, the rest of the School (with notable assistance from Pansy Parkinson and Ernie McMillan), was torn between being impressed and being amused. There were words of praise for the courage of young Tadpole, who had ensured that his name would live on in Hogwarts annals under the heading of 'Extreme Tomfoolery'.

Not since the Weasley twins had any student exhibited such a reckless disregard for the rules for no other purpose than to cause mischief.

The rest of day passed excruciatingly slowly, in Hermione's opinion. She was still reeling from her encounter with Draco in the Prefects' Bath, having come away from it with two conclusions. They were extremely problematic, hard to digest, nearly impossible to consider, conclusions, and she didn't like thinking about them at all.

So she didn't. It was a splendid example of emotional procrastination.

Despite how badly things had gone between them on the Wednesday, she could no longer deny that she had _feelings_ for Malfoy.

The trouble was that the feelings were not tender. They did not cause her to day-dream or sigh or draw little hearts around the letters H and D.

The fact was that when she looked at him, she felt ill. Not necessarily in a bad way, but in a way which meant that she forgot herself. Her unwilling husband had a very dangerous effect on her, whether he knew it or not.

And unfortunately, _Fida Mia_ was not all to blame.

Hermione found it almost obscene to be worrying about matters of the heart when one of their own, Tonks, was probably in mortal danger.

**

It was not unusual to find Harry in the common room at odd hours of the night, packed away into one corner of a couch. Sometimes, he sat and talked with Ginny, who never seemed to need as much sleep as the rest of them. Other times, he played chess with Ron, or cards with Neville.

That evening, he had reading material. He looked up as Hermione came down the steps. "Hi."

"Hi," she said, sitting next to him on the sofa. She saw that he had on mismatched socks, and she squeezed one of his big toes in greeting. "Can't sleep either?"

He yawned. "That seems to the common student condition lately. I'm just looking over Snape's notes on my Occlumency Exam. We were supposed to be discussing the results this morning when Snape was called to the infirmary."

"Let me see? Ninety-eight percent! Harry that's brilliant."

"Yeah, I suppose."

She understood his lack of enthusiasm. Tonks' disappearance was foremost on their minds. Dumbledore's absence from School had them all uneasy and on alert. Bad things happened when he was away.

There were absurd suggestions that Tonks and simply run off with Donald Bligh, but no one who knew Tonks (or Bligh, for that matter) would entertain the thought. An Order meeting had been called for Monday and then postponed.

Harry was on tenterhooks of anticipation to know what steps Moody was taking to locate his missing Aurors. Hermione leafed through Snape's highly critical, meticulous notes in silence. The Common Room was very quiet.

"Did you want something?" Harry suddenly asked.

"Yes, as a matter of fact." Hermione was unsure how to put it, so she just laid out the request, plain and simple. "Harry, can I borrow your Invisibility Cloak?"

"You're not thinking of trying to find Tonks yourself, are you?"

She gave him a look. "Of course not."

"Because as you told me before, it would be extremely foolish to do anything without consulting Dumbledore and the others first."

"Yes."

"And going off on your own would just make the rest of us worry about you…"

"Harry, _yes_, I know that."

He nodded. "Right. Just making sure."

Puzzled, Hermione watched Harry rise to his feet, stretched for a bit, before telling her to wait. He then went up the stairs to his room and returned a minute later with his cloak.

"I'm not going to ask you why you need that," he said, pointedly. "But I'll trust that you'll tell me if you need me."

_Her boys were all grown up_, Hermione realised. She suppressed the desire to burst into tears.

Impressively unfazed, Harry patted her on the shoulder. "He's a lucky boy, whoever he is."

Her head jerked up. "What makes you think it's that?"

Harry shrugged, but there was a ghost of a smile on his face. "Seems like you only break rules for boys you care about."

She honestly hadn't thought about it that way before.


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter Twenty-Six**

_What's so amazing That keeps us star gazing What do we think we might see? – Kermit the Frog, 'The Rainbow Connection'._

_**_

_ Friday evening._

At five minutes pass two in the morning, Hermione slipped on her bedroom slippers, followed by Harry's cloak, and crept out of her room.

The teachers had been added to the patrol roster around Hogwarts, just as they had done in Hermione's second year, during the Chamber of Secrets fiasco. Apparently McGonagall herself had volunteered to take the corridors in the vicinity of Gryffindor House.

Hermione sincerely hoped that the Deputy Headmistress would currently be on duty because it would be easier to sneak past her, than it was to get by a young, spry, highly trained Auror. No offence to Minerva McGonagall.

Getting caught sneaking around the castle would be the start of a whole bag of trouble none of them needed, not the Aurors, not the staff and not Hermione. Not to mention the fact that she was also responsible for keeping Harry's precious cloak safe.

It was always startling to realize just how creaky and noisy the various floorboards, doors and hinges were, when you were trying to be as quiet as possible. Maybe Malfoy was right. Maybe she did lack the sneaking gene. Her bedroom slippers muffled her footsteps brilliantly however, and so all Hermione had to do was duck her head around every corner to check where the patrol was.

She counted three Aurors by the time she got to the ground floor and was one corridor away from the Infirmary.

Unfortunately, when she got there, she saw that Professor Snape was standing immediately outside the open doors of the hospital wing. He was staring into the darkness with an expression that was almost challenging. Hermione frowned.

Honestly, suspicious seemed to be the man's natural state of being.

_Bugger._

She waited for what seemed like hours, though it must have only been about twenty minutes or so. Her right foot started to cramp up. Even Potion Masters had to go to the bathroom sometimes, right?

Miracles upon miracles, Hagrid appeared at the opposite end of the corridor, a monstrous mass carrying a dimly glowing lantern. He beckoned to Snape, and after an obligatory sneer, the Potions Master deserted his post to speak to the Groundskeeper.

Hermione seized her chance. She sprinted the remaining distance and slipped inside the infirmary. In the muted light of the evening, the infirmary was a long, cavernous room that smelled not unpleasantly of disinfectant. The place was definitely more cheerful in the day time, Hermione decided.

She was not experiencing any of the excitement and nervous tension she felt when she had first snuck out of Gryffindor to meet Draco in the Owlery. The danger was so very close to home now and there was nothing remotely fun about what she was doing.

All the beds were empty save for the one nearest to the windows, which had its curtains drawn around it. There was a pair of black, leather school shoes, thrown haphazardly beneath the bed. She noted that there were no chocolates, flowers or cards adorning the bedside table, as was often the case when Harry was admitted.

Perhaps Slytherins did not make a habit of attempting to speed up a fellow student's healing by force-feeding him or her obscene amounts of candy.

Somehow that was a sad thought.

Checking to see that Snape had not returned, Hermione parted the curtains. Being invisible definitely had its merits.

_Just one look_, she told herself.

She took off the cloak and draped it over the bedside table. Malfoy was sleeping on his stomach, with one hand beside his face, fingers curled. The right side of his head was smeared with some sort of ointment. He looked awfully young with his features so completely relaxed.

There was a cut just above his eyebrow, already magically sealed. The injured area was red and puffy looking, but otherwise, he seemed to be in one piece. He was wearing infirmary-issue pajamas, but the top was so badly buttoned that Hermione suspected he had insisted on putting it on himself. She wondered if it was because he hadn't wanted anyone to ask questions about the tattoo on his back.

There was one pillow on the bed, which he had squashed into ball to make it more substantial. The light sheet that was also standard issue, had been tossed to the floor. His feet were bare and his right foot was hanging off the edge of the bed.

He had really attractive feet.

Ok. She had had her look. But now that she was there, Hermione made up her mind that he was cold.

She made sure that the curtains were once again fully drawn around the bed before she bent down to retrieve the sheet. While she was down there, she picked up his shoes and placed them neatly in a corner. As Hermione went to stand up again, she was startled when the hand that had been lying placidly beside his face, reached up to graze her cheek.

Draco was awake and he was looking at her with the most vulnerable, worried expression. She felt her breath mysteriously lodge inside her chest.

"Couldn't find him anywhere," he said, sounding nearly on the verge of tears. His eyes were half-lidded and his voice slurred. Hermione relaxed slightly when she realised he was extremely disoriented.

"He _always_ comes when I call."

Hermione draped the sheet over him and then, with only a moment's hesitation, reached out to hold his hand. "Who couldn't you find, Draco?"

"Brown and shaggy. Smells like stagnant pond," he smiled ruefully at the memory. "Followed me home from the village one day."

He was talking about some long-lost pet, Hermione realised. The dog must have obviously meant a lot to him.

"I'm sorry," she said. And she was, because she knew she was currently glimpsing something intensely private and he was going to hate himself later for telling her.

"Head feels like shite," he whispered, licking his lips. He rolled over with a loud groan and Hermione resisted the urge to shush him. Snape only needed to stick a head into the room to notice her presence.

"Would you like a glass of water?" she asked.

He was squinting at her. Hermione surmised he was probably starting to realize who and where they were.

"Granger?"

"Yes, it's Hermione. I've snuck out of dorm to see you." She added the last part in case he decided to be loud again.

"Hermione…"

She had to grin. He had trouble saying her name and only managed it on his third attempt. That was only marginally worse than poor Krum, though.

"I didn't mean to wake you."

"Knew you'd come back," he nodded. He was smiling like a four year old who'd just been informed that Santa Clause the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny did indeed exist and were throwing a massive party down the street.

"The other one. Granger. _She_ doesn't like me very much. Good thing I'm a light sleeper. Come here to finish me off if she could, the harpy."

Hermione's eyes widened at that. The man was obviously drugged up to his eyeballs. His concussion must have been more serious than Ron had described.

The hand holding was rather nice, though. He had a warm, dry grip, which was unusual for boys his age. From experience, they tended to be perpetually sweaty palmed.

"I came to see how you're doing."

"Awrrible," he informed. She thought maybe he had meant to say 'awful' at first, but then changed his mind.

"That was a big risk you took, helping that boy today. Everyone's talking about it."

He smirked at her with his eyes closed. It was incredibly endearing. "Tadpole's awright. Needs some brains to go with that big brass set he's got, but he's a good sort."

She laughed, and then winced at the noise. "You might like to know that Dodders has been singing your praises all day."

He waved a hand dismissively, and the movement nearly caused him to fall off the bed. Hermione took hold of his shoulders and told him to sit still.

"Bah! Fat lot of good that does me. Someone hates me enough to set me up. The list could be quite long, you know… Lotsa people onnit. Hermione, you listening?"

"I'm listening." She sat on the edge of the bed to emphasize this.

"My head's sore. I've ruined my face and they're telling me you weren't even there to see any of it," he continued.

Hermione filed away that small, but priceless confession. She straightened his collar, which was tucked inside his shirt. "In any case, the two of you survived, and I assure you, your good looks are still very much intact."

"Pfft," he said, blowing his fringe off his forehead. "Granger thinks I'm _disgusting_. Won't speak to me, won't touch me. Won't fuck me when we're sober. Married me though. That's something, innit?"

Her eyes widened. The man was on a roll. "I suppose."

Malfoy seemed to be having trouble keeping his eyes focused on her. He frowned, squinted, blew a raspberry and then told her to stop multiplying into two, because it was making him dizzy.

"Oww," he groaned.

She took pity on him. "Hush. Close your eyes."

Nothing, not even a hospital visit was simple, when Draco was concerned. It didn't seem right that no one cared, that someone _somewhere_ wasn't worried about how he was doing and wasn't in the process of working out how to sneak outside of curfew to see him.

"'Kay," he said, sounding petulant. "Will you stay?"

"Yes."

"Get into bed with me?"

"I _can't_."

"Yes, you can. There's space, see?"

She didn't know what he expected her to 'see'. He didn't so much as budge an inch over, on the bed.

Hermione chalked it down to temporary insanity, when she took her shoes off and climbed onto the bed. There was no room, and she had to gently shove Malfoy to the left because it was obvious he was in no state to do that himself. He smelled strongly of camphor and salve, which she didn't like. It overpowered his usual, natural scent.

"This is crazy. If I get caught, I'm taking you down with me," she whispered, after the sheet was evenly laid over the both of them.

Malfoy continued smirking. "'Kay," he said, again, before resting his chin on the top of her head. "We should do this more often."

He made it sound as if they were sharing tea and crumpets.

Hermione lay in the crook of his arm, her head on his chest, one leg hooked over his, and was alarmed to realize that she could have happily fallen asleep right then and there, given the chance.

The key to beating insomnia was apparently to lie in extremely cramped conditions with a dosed-up Draco Malfoy, who happened to smell like Vicks Vapor Rub multiplied by ten.

"Tell the harpy I'm sorry about trying to stick her in the Bath. You'll do that, won't you, Hermione? Tell her?" He nuzzled her neck.

"The harpy recalls the apology," was all Hermione would say. The memory was still a bit too fresh in her mind. She wasn't sure she was ready to deal with a sober, non-drugged, Draco Malfoy.

"I wouldn't have hurt her," he insisted, sounding very serious now.

Hermione tilted her head up to look at him, and he took this opportunity to brush his lips over the bridge of her nose. That simple contact made her head spin. He was going cross eyed looking at her freckles. It was much too dark to see what his chameleon-like eyes were up to, but she was willing to bet they were widely dilated.

"You were _trying_ to hurt her. She's not stupid," Hermione eventually managed to say.

_She is mental though, because she's apparently referring to herself in the third person now…_

"Girl's too brainy for her own good. Think less. Sex more," Draco declared, in a sagely manner. "I ought to get that printed on a t-shirt."

"You do that." Hermione was prodding at his head with her fingers, to see how close he had come to getting his annoying brain, permanently damaged.

"That feels good." His fingers were stroking at the soft skin at her hip. She could imagine the dragon tattoo straining and stretching across her skin, eager to come into contact with his hand.

Odd how that sensation didn't feel strange any more. Just _new_.

"You're wearing that shirt again," he noted, looking at her chest with a bleary expression. He looked like Harry on the mornings when he discovered he had lost his glasses. "The one with the wee frog. Kevin."

"Kermit," she corrected, smiling into his neck. She hadn't even realised she was wearing the same t-shirt.

"So. Are you going to tell me what this rainbow connection thing is all about? Or is that top secret Muggle business that my poor, magical brain can't possible comprehend?" There was just enough annoyance in his voice to remind Hermione that underneath the balms, the sleeping draught, the hospital pajamas and the hand holding, lurked the same Draco.

She hesitated, sensing where the conversation was going. "Well, it's this song he sings."

"Splendid. Sing it for me."

"No, Malfoy. I'm not even supposed to be here, remember?"

He became quiet. Incredibly, Hermione suspected he might actually be upset.

Good lord.

She rolled her eyes and relented. Never let it be said that Hermione Grange was not a soft touch. "Will you go to sleep if I sing it for you?

His other hand came about to stroke her cheek clumsily, which, she supposed, was his way of saying, 'yes, thanks, that would be very nice.'

She wasn't going to chance looking at him now. There would be too much intensity and unguarded emotion on his face. She felt like a third party intruding on some private moment, yet again.

"Fine."

She sang the song, off-key, because she wasn't very good at it, and in a half-whisper. But he listened anyway and there were no more complaints.

Hermione thought he must have been nearly asleep by the time she got to the last verse, but he wasn't. He slipped his hand under the hem of her t-shirt, placed his palm over the curve of her belly to lightly squeeze for a moment, slid it up her rib cage and then cupped her left breast.

He then pressed his nose against her cheek and inhaled deeply, his thumb absently rubbing over her nipple, under her shirt. The whole act was done completely naturally, as if he had done it to her a hundred times before. There was no calculation, just a simple need, appeased.

Her entire body turned to liquid. She was sure she had melted into a sensitized, relaxed puddle of flesh, right there on Malfoy's hospital bed.

Hermione faltered on the chorus. He was breathing evenly against her neck now. All signs pointed to a deep, healing sleep. She couldn't recall ever feeling more comfortable, or more _safe_, for that matter. And that was saying something.

Falling asleep with the person you cared about was fine, wherever the bloody hell you came from and whatever the hell else was going on in the world.

It was perfectly fine. It had to be.

She closed her eyes. _Just for a minute_, she told herself. Just until I'm sure he's asleep.

**

The sun wasn't quite up yet when Hermione opened her eyes. It took an enormous amount of effort to shake the sleep off. She was normally out of bed and dressed in ten minutes, but on this occasion, she felt like a newly awakened Rip Van Winkle.

Malfoy was wrapped around her like cling-film, his lanky frame filled out every spare bit of space on the bed. Where there wasn't space, he simply draped the limb in question, over her. The sheet was once again on the floor. No surprises there. Hermione realised she had been sleeping on his right arm for most of the night and shifted so that she could free it for him.

He was sleeping like the dead.

It wasn't until she was about to gingerly slide her legs off the mattress and sit up, did she notice Pansy Parkinson standing at the foot of the bed, a posy of daffodils in her hand. It was still mostly dark in the infirmary.

"Morning," the Slytherin girl said, coolly.

Hermione pushed her hair out of her face and stood up. Her hair tie had gone missing. "Pansy."

"I came to see if he's any better. I might have spared myself the effort if I knew he was in such good hands," she informed tartly. Her jaw was tense and Hermione noticed that she was gripping the flowers a little too tightly.

Well. This was just peachy. Harry was going to boil his cloak to sterilize it when he found out. "I suppose I should explain," Hermione began, rather lamely.

There was only one obvious explanation for what Pansy was seeing, and there was not going to be any way to sugar coat it. She wasn't about to insult the girl's intelligence with false denials.

"No need." Pansy smiled. Ron called this particular type of smile 'mouth-stretching', because that was what it was. There was nothing remotely friendly about it. "I guessed he had a new plaything lately, but I didn't think it was going to be _you_."

_Plaything?_ Hermione supposed that label would have to suffice. Better plaything than the 'love interest'. They'd crucify him for the latter.

"Don't worry," Pansy sniffed, "I won't tell anyone. He's got enough to be dealing with besides safe-guarding his…reputation."

Hermione folded her arms. It occurred to her that they were both whispering so as to not to wake Draco. Pansy's feelings for Draco were not exactly a secret, but Hermione was starting to realize just how far those feelings went.

"And what's _that_ supposed to mean?"

Pansy sneered at her. "Don't be coy. It doesn't suit you. You know all about the importance of reputation. Yours isn't going to escape intact if this gets out, you know."

"I'm not going to ask you to do a God-damned thing, Parkinson," Hermione countered. "If you choose not to tell anyone, for Draco's sake, I'll be glad for it. But you don't have to do me any favours."

"Do _me_ a favour then," Pansy said, thrusting the flowers into Hermione's hand. "Give those to him. Seems like he's quite willing to take whatever _you_ have to offer. Make sure you leave before Madam Pomfrey makes her six o'clock rounds."

And with that, Pansy gave the sleeping Draco once last look, before walking out of the infirmary.


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter Twenty-Seven**

_Saturday_

There were three things Gregory Goyle wanted to say to Pansy Parkinson.

The first thing seemed trite, though no less true than the other two things. She had the prettiest blue eyes he had ever seen and that that they reminded him of the waters off the coast of Easter Island, in the South Pacific.

The second thing he desperately wanted to tell her was that pining for Draco Malfoy was a lost cause because Draco was not capable of loving anyone but himself. This was a proven point, which she would be hard pressed to try and dispute.

The last thing that he ached to say, that he wanted to scream from the tallest turret, to etch into the surface of every desk in the school, was that he loved her.

Pansy knew a lot of about a lot of things, but for some reason, she was ignorant about how Goyle felt about her. It didn't help matters that they had known each other since infancy, and had been friends for nearly that long.

Being friends with a Slytherin was not like being friends with normal people. It was a great deal simpler. For starters. Slytherins never fell out with each other for very long, both for reasons of necessity and survival, as well as having too much in common to find much to disagree about in the first place.

Goyle would have supported his friend, Draco, if the latter decided to move to the Antarctic, live in an igloo and raise Malamutes. Whatever. Goyle would be on hand to provide assistance if it was within his power to do so.

On the subject of Pansy, however, Goyle disagreed with Draco _on principle_. He couldn't help it.

Before breakfast, Goyle had walked with Pansy to the Astronomy Tower because she apparently had news to tell him that was of an 'extremely sensitive nature'. From past experience, this could have been anything from what Millicent had told her about some other girl Millicent had found snogging in the Greenhouses on Friday evening, to what latest Parkinson asset Pansy's drunkard of a father had just gambled away.

They passed Professor Flitwick coming down the curved, stone staircase and he reminded them that the Tower entrance would be shut in half an hour.

Pansy assured him that she wouldn't need nearly that long because she was a fast talker. Flitwick had had Pansy in his Charms class for seven years and knew this to be true. He waved them off on and continued on his patrol.

Goyle wondered what this latest gossip was. She didn't seem so eager to share it, so much as eager to unburden herself.

The wind was chasing its tail at the Tower and Goyle resisted the urge to wrap and anchoring hand around Pansy's upper arm. Lately she seemed slight enough to be blown away by a summer breeze. She had lost all her puppy fat sometime in their sixth year and had remained as slim as a reed. Goyle didn't mind her either way. He figured he'd still be crazy about her even if she had two heads and a hump.

"Draco's shagging Hermione Granger," came the revelation, delivered at top speed. Her eyes were shiny with angry tears.

Goyle folded his arms. "Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure!" she snapped, and then gave him an apologetic look, which managed to be no less snippy.

"I mean, this isn't just _gossip_, Gregory. It's fact. I saw them in the Infirmary early this morning. The horrid cow looked like she'd spent the night with him."

"What was Draco doing?" Goyle asked. He had more intelligent questions in his head, but it had never been his habit to voice them. Better to let events unfold and make silent, private confirmations.

Pansy tensed her jaw and scowled down at the forest canopy. "Holding her like she was a permanent cure for bad hair days."

"I see."

She turned sharply to him. "Do you? I don't! I know Draco's been out of sorts since last year, but _this_? Lusting after the Mudblood is one thing, but going out with her is quite another."

"They're going out?"

"Oh, trust me. They're going out," Pansy nodded.

"How do you know that?"

"He won't even hold hands with other girls he sees, what the hell would make him want to curl up in bed with one he most likely isn't getting it from regularly?"

"Do you think Potter knows?"

Pansy looked contemplative now. Though Goyle would describe it more as 'scheming'. This was how she usually looked, and it was a definite improvement on angry and heartbroken.

"No, actually I don't think he does. _Interesting_."

"This will complicate...things," Goyle said, he scuffed his shoe, back and forth against the stone.

"It won't. Draco can be trusted." Pansy was adamant, though she was nodding a bit too vigorously as she said this, as if that would help ease her doubts. "He knows where his loyalties are."

Goyle too, had his doubts. If what Pansy was describing was to be believed, then there was a bit more than mere lust at work. If Draco cared for the girl, then relying on Draco's sometimes questionable common sense was perhaps not the wisest option for any of them.

But one did not disagree with Pansy Parkinson without facing repercussions. Besides, they only had about fifteen minutes of privacy left on the Astronomy Tower and it was much too beautiful a day to spend with an angry, upset, Pansy.

And so, Goyle agreed. There would be plenty of time later for dealing with Draco Malfoy.

"I trust Draco too," Goyle informed. "I trust him with my life."

It was not a lie.

**

Diagon Alley was bursting at the seams. It was not the best time to schedule an important, private meeting with Borgin and his recommended Fida Mia expert, and yet, by the same token, it was.

It was the eve of the International Cauldron Makers Guild Convention and every cauldron manufacturer who had had the good sense to book a spot three months in advance was currently in London. And like every other International Cauldron Makers Guild Convention held in Diagon Alley for the past century or so, the good folk who slaved away over forges and kilns for long hours each day, were doing their best to spend as much money as possible, on food, entertainment and alcohol, in as little time as possible.

The hawkers of Diagon and Knockturn Alleys rubbed their hands together with glee and hiked up the price of all street-side trinkets, souvenirs and take-away foods. There was usually drunken skirmish on each day of the five-day Convention (for there were cliques within the Guild).

It was the perfect opportunity to blend into the crowd. Whether Borgin had scheduled the meeting on that weekend, for this precise reason, was unclear.

Wizards and witches and a host of other beings of various Ministry classifications attempted to navigate around Magical London's many, winding streets, using a sort of conga-line approach to get one from spot to another. This consisted of taking a deep breath, stepping off the sidewalk and taking the first available gap in the throng of people moving slowly up and down the street.

If you got pick pocketed, then you were silly enough to not magically seal your pockets. If you were unfortunate enough to get groped, then you were entitled to clobber the offending individual over the head or groin with whatever was handy (usually umbrellas, handbags and in one Guild member's case, her award winning, prototype cauldron).

Hermione left Hogwarts in the early afternoon, a day after Draco and Tandish Dodders' concussion-inducing adventures on the Quidditch Pitch. Madam Pomfrey had examined a slightly groggy Draco before breakfast, and had declared him in no shape to do anything more than delicately lie back in bed and give them all looks of contempt.

Naturally, he scowled at her, got up, got dressed and was out of the Infirmary in five minutes.

Hermione had been leaving the Great Hall after having breakfast with Harry and Ginny, when she spotted her harried-looking 'husband', stalking across the foyer towards her.

There was hardly anyone left at school. Most of the younger students had been whisked home early by their parents in the past day, since the announcement that two Aurors had gone missing. The only students remaining were a dozen sixth and seventh years, school prefects and a handful of younger children whose parents were either abroad, or Muggles.

Hermione steeled herself for a barrage of questions about what had transpired in the Infirmary. But then Professor McGonagall came down the stairs, bid them both a terse good morning and stared beadily at Draco.

"How is your head, Mister Malfoy?"

"Still attached, Professor," was Draco's response. He was wearing a pair of dark jeans, with a light grey t-shirt, and was looking much better than the night before.

"I have just met with Madam Pomfrey, who is most concerned about your premature discharge from the Hospital Wing," she informed.

"Is she?" Draco asked, with no remorse whatsoever. "Didn't notice it, myself. Have you seen Tandish Dodders, Professor? Is he well?"

"Alive and in one piece, last I saw him," the Deputy Headmistress said, "though he's since been in the company of your extremely irate Head of House, so that fact may require reassessment."

"Poor boy," muttered Hermione.

McGonagall's sharp eyes turned to the Head Girl. "And you, Miss Granger. You have my thanks for deciding to stay on these last two days. Our numbers are down to two dozen in total, but I daresay these hardy souls will be reassured by the presence of their School Captains."

"As Head Girl, it is the least I can do to be here until the last day of term. I think I can speak the same for Blaise," Hermione spoke, with more sobriety than Draco had.

McGonagall smiled, touched her lightly on the shoulder and then set off once more.

Draco waited until the sound of her footsteps could no longer be heard. He then made a faint, gagging noise. "Good thing I missed breakfast. That display of sugar-soaked loyalty would have tried my weak stomach."

Hermione gave him a hard look. "Well I'm glad you're feeling better."

He stared at her, not saying anything. Did he remember then? He didn't look like he did. She became wary, nonetheless. "Is your head still sore?" she asked, cautiously.

"What you mean to ask is if I remember if you came to visit me last night?" he drawled, one eyebrow raised.

"Er," said Hermione.

"Not really," he continued. "I can't recall all that much after the part where you took advantage of me in my delirious state."

She knew when she was being baited and so did not rise to the occasion. "In other words, you don't remember anything other than that I came to see you?"

He hooked his thumbs in the belt loops of his jeans and rocked on the balls of his feet. "Not a thing," he said, cheerfully.

_Too cheerfully._

Hermione wasn't convinced, but didn't want to press the issue. They had greater concerns. The sooner she got her personal life sorted, the more use she would be to Dumbledore and the Order.

"Has there been any word form Borgin?"

"There has, actually," he replied. "That's why I braved Neville Longbottom's infamously horrific 'morning face' in the third floor toilets, to ask where I could find you." He took out a tightly folded bit of parchment from his back jeans pocket and handed it to her.

The paper carried the warmth of his body. Hermione quickly banished the thought, and opened what she presumed was Borgin's reply note.

Three seconds later: "Malfoy, why am I reading the ingredients for bran muffins?"

"Oh," he said, sounding impatient. He snatched the paper out of her hands, took out his wand, murmured something and then shook the paper as if trying to jar the letters and words into a different sequence.

"Try it now."

The letters leapfrogged over each other, forming Borgin's hidden message to them. She blinked a few times at the exorbitant consultation quote by the so-called Fida Mia expert, but decided not to comment on that either.

"We'll meet outside the Cobblestone in an hour. Will you have any trouble getting away from Potty and the Weasel, Guardians of your Unquestionable Virtue?"

God, he was a prat. Hermione was not distracted from her inspection of the letter. "If my virtue was unquestionable, I wouldn't need guardians, would I?"

Draco snorted. "Touché."

She made a mistake of looking up and giving him a small, amused smile. So sue her, he had caught her off guard. It was hardly her fault that she was a pleasant human being on purpose.

He didn't like this little display of friendliness. He went from mildly annoyed to looking at her suspiciously. "Granger, I know what all this looks and feels like, but we're not getting along."

She blinked at him, all long, curling eyelashes and mock innocence. Her newfound ability to unsettle him, and to be aware of it, was empowering. "We aren't?"

He was so quick. He glanced quickly to check that they were no witnesses before grabbing her upper arm and pulling her roughly into the shadows under the main staircase. There was a an impressive amount of litter under the stairs: Droobles wrappers, empty Bertie Botts boxes that looked like they were from the seventies, a velvet hair scrunchie and a fifth year Muggle Studies essay by a William Hunt-Smith.

"No, we're not friends."

She plucked cobwebs from his hair and marvelled at the fact that she was no longer scared of him.

Even if he was a quite a bit bigger than she was.

"If you say so."

"When this is all over, I'll be grateful never to have to lay eyes on your again," he continued.

But she could almost feel his eyes raking over her face, drinking in details that he didn't permit himself to notice when they were in view of others. Her hand came up of its own accord, traitorous and yet more sincere than the rest of her, to settle lightly just above his hip. A couple of inches upwards and she'd be touching tattooed flesh, albeit under a layer of t-shirt.

She'd probably swoon from the effect of it, Hermione mused, like some sort of tightly corseted romance heroine with low blood sugar.

"Likewise," she countered, slightly breathless. The fabric of his t-shirt felt amazing, especially with the warmth and subtle hardness of his waist, beneath it. In better times, she would have to ask him what sort of fabric conditioner he used.

Was he recalling the night before? He may have been tight-lipped about what had transpired, but his eyes were writing novels.

Hermione somehow located her wits, which had been cowering in a small, warm corner of her stomach. Against all odds, she was beginning to understand him. It made sense, really.

Every time they had a 'moment', he reacted by becoming a bona fide basket case. It was a classic defence mechanism. And with her fear of him gone, all that was left was startling, blessed _clarity._

"About last night, I wanted to see how you were," she explained, calmly.

"I don't need you to see how I am," he growled. His hands were no longer crushing her upper arms, they were doing squeezing, rubbing, chafing things, as if he were trying to keep her from catching a chill, or as if he couldn't decide if he wanted to hurt or caress her. They could have still fit a Goyle-sized individual between them, however.

Space really was the final frontier, currently anyway.

"Your problem, Malfoy, is that you have no idea _what_ you want," she snapped at him. "You can't work out which side you want to be on. Make a choice. Dark or Light? We're at war here. You don't have the luxury of hovering in between, so stop hating the rest of us for knowing what we're about!"

His jaw dropped a little. Undaunted, Hermione pressed on. "You want my cooperation to solve this Fida Mia business and yet you don't want me anywhere near you at the same time? You get angry when you can't get me to listen, but when I'm compliant, you act like the biggest, whinging bitch ever to come out of Slytherin House."

They eyeballed each other in silence for a few, heated seconds.

"And that's really saying something!" she added, as an afterthought.

He looked like he wanted to strangle her. They'd probably find her body later in the day, lying amidst rainbow coloured candy wrappers and Hunt-Smith's essay on _'Muggles and Insurance: Paranoia or Necessity?'_

"You stupid, little girl," he sneered, his breath was hot and sweet over her face. "I'll tell you exactly what I _don't_ want. I didn't particularly want you on the night of the party, but hey, you offered and I'm not Saint Potter to turn down a passable shag that's tossed my way just because of my intense gay love for my best friend. I didn't want you to come near me after the Prefects' Bath after you made it quite plain that I repulse you. I don't need you to inquire after my wellbeing after I saved Dodders' incompetent arse out on the pitch. I don't want to wake up in the morning with a raging hard on and sheets that smell like you, only you're not there for me to tell you to get the hell lost!"

Hermione opened her mouth, and then closed it. She didn't think she needed to tell him he was insane. That little monologue had proved it beyond all doubt.

"Speechless?" he asked, nodding. His voice caught a bit. "Good. I'll see you in Diagon Alley."

Merlin knew stranger things had happened in her lifetime, but this next realisation suddenly put all of those things into sharp perspective.

She watched him walk away, in the direction of the dungeons. Hermione was quite certain that he had just taken her heart with him.


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter Twenty-Eight**

Someone was coming down the corridor, and it wasn't Bob the Dungeon Employee. Tonks knew this because Bob wore big boots and stomped around a lot when he walked. No, this new person was light footed and very, very quiet. Tonks only heard the stranger's approach because she had been expecting it since finding herself in her cell.

People who captured and imprisoned other people generally liked to inspect their booty. Sooner or later, even if there were henchmen and Bobs aplenty, the nature of evil kidnapping dictated that the Person in Charge ultimately came around to have a good old gawk.

The point was that you needed to pay attention and recognise a Person in Charge when you saw one.

Presently, the top slot of the cell door slid open. A face appeared, pale, curious and quietly smug. It was like a blow to the chest to see Harry Potter's youthful, wide-eyed visage staring back at her, but Tonks soon got her emotions under control.

If _that_ was Harry, then Dumbledore was Madam Rosmerta in extremely clever disguise.

"Nobody likes a show off," Tonks said, in a conversational tone.

Harry's face split into a knowing smile. It was the same sort of smirk Tonks had seen on the fake Draco's face.

So, this person was calling the shots then. There had to be others assisting though, for the dungeon was not a small, fly by night, operation.

"You'd be little Malfoy's cousin, then? Andromeda's brat?" said the Metamorphmagus.

"And you'd be suffering from some sort of brain disease to think you can abduct two Aurors and get away with it," Tonks neatly replied.

"_One_ Auror," her captor corrected, giving her a measuring look. "To be sure. I've abducted just the one."

Tonk's breath caught. So Bligh _was_ dead. She had suspected as much, but had been hoping her intuition was wrong. Moody would rain fire and brimstone to avenge the young man, but first, Tonks would have to escape to tell him. She tried not to think of Astrid Huggins, who adored Bligh. Or Bligh's mother, whose name Tonks could not recall, but who had been beaming and proud at her son's graduation from Auror Academy.

"I like you," the Metamorphmagus informed, pleased to see that he had rendered her temporarily speechless.

"You're not as dull as other Aurors, I suppose it's the Black blood exerting itself?"

Tonks wondered if the little show-off knew she was a Metamorphmagus as well. Better to keep that under wraps for the time being.

"Who are you?" she asked. "Why not tell me? It's not like I'm going anywhere at the moment."

The face that watched her grew serious. It was three parts ambition, one part plain old craziness. It was nearly the stuff of Voldemorts.

"I am one who has been overlooked, written off, thrown aside in favour of others undeserving. But not for much longer."

Tonks nodded with mock solemnity. "And you practice that little speech in the mirror how many times a day?"

That did not please her captor. The slot snapped shut and her light footed, decidedly cunning, Metamorphmagus captor of questionable sanity, left the dungeon.

No one came to Tonks cell for the rest of the day. Or the next, for that matter.

**

"Where's a newspaper when you want one?" Ron grumbled to himself.

There had been none delivered that morning at breakfast because most of the student subscribers were back home already. Ron had no luck searching in the Gryffindor Common Room either. His luck changed when he spotted a young Hufflepuff coming down the stairs, with the Daily Prophet tucked under his arm.

"Borrow this?" Ron called out. It was a rhetorical question. He had already snatched the paper from the boy.

Ron found Harry at the edge of the lake, where he was seated with Ginny on the stone bench that Hermione liked to visit when it was too warm indoors. Ron sat, sighed, opened the paper and began to look for anything Tonks related.

He was momentarily sidetracked by an article about the Chudley Canons' new Beater, but then guiltily turned his attention to scouring the news for subtle hints of trouble.

It was the first real 'break' the friends had shared since learning of Tonks and Bligh's disappearance. Worry was a wearying thing sometimes.

"Hold up." Ginny said, frowning. She took the paper from her brother, who protested, and scanned a small article at the bottom of the front page. "Narcissa Malfoy is _dead_?"

"What!" Harry said. "Since when?"

Ginny paused to read before answering. "Since some time ago, apparently. Says here she was in Switzerland when it happened. Isn't that where Dumbledore is? Professor McGonagall said he was attending to some urgent matter there."

Ron wondered how he had missed the story. "Does it mention how she died?"

"It doesn't say. It only says there's been an apparent cover up about the death and now some sort of Ministry investigation is underway. I wonder how Dumbledore's involved?"

"That's awful," Harry shook his head. "I mean, you have to admire her for leaving Lucius in the end. That took guts. She didn't seem the 'free will' sort."

Ginny worried her lower lip. "Do you think Lucius is involved?"

"How?" Ron interjected. "He can't wipe his arse without the Ministry giving him toilet paper to use."

"That's lovely, Ronald," Ginny said, giving her brother a bland look.

Harry, meanwhile, looked troubled. "I wonder if Malfoy knows?"

"You know, I don't think he does. He's been his usual self all year."

"And what's usual for Malfoy?" Ron asked his sister interestedly.

"Gitty," said Ginny. "An improvement on bigoted, bullying, bastard. But gitty, nonetheless."

"This reeks of manipulation." It was Harry who said it, though they were all thinking it. The Ministry, and indeed Dumbledore, were not exactly known for being forthcoming or proactively minded in the past, though Dumbledore had taken great pains to ensure that that had changed.

The Ministry of Magic however, was another matter.

Ron looked around, as if just noticing the absence of another opinion. "Where's Hermione?"

Ginny was now tying her shoelaces. "Gone for the day. She said she needed to go to Gringotts."

"Oh," said Ron. "She might have told me. I would have gone with her to get me some new feed for Pig. He's not responding well to this new stuff mum got. It repeats on him," Ron told them, making a face.

Harry and Ginny shared a look that was half amusement, half trepidation. "Ron, dear. I don't think she would have appreciated your company today, much as she enjoys it."

Ron stared at his sister beadily, and then at Harry, who was suddenly studying his fingernails. "I'm about to be told something potentially unpleasant, aren't I?"

"You tell him," Ginny prodded.

Harry looked up. "Me? Why me?"

"Tell me what?" Ron asked, looking overly concerned. "What's wrong with Hermione?"

"Calm down, Ron. There's nothing wrong with Hermione."

"The hell there isn't!" Ron bristled. "I want to know."

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Well of course we knew you'd over react. It's not a big deal Ron. Harry and I think she's got a boyfriend. Or something."

"What does that mean, 'or something'?"

"It means she's not telling us yet," Harry clarified.

"Do we know who it is?"

Ginny pulled her brother down to sit beside her once more. He probably hadn't realised he had started standing.

"Well, we don't think she'd be this secretive if it was someone we'd approve of straightaway."

Ron went very pale. "_Oh my God_."

Ginny knew her brother well enough to guess the types of things that popped into his head at random. "Don't be an idiot, it's not a teacher!"

"You're sure?"

"Yes! Honestly Ron!"

"Well then who is it?" Ron asked, agitated.

Ginny glanced at Harry, who sighed before speaking. "We think he's from Slytherin. We think he's someone she's come to know well lately…"

"You don't mean…" Ron began.

"Yes, well he's liked her for ages, hasn't he? Frankly, I don't know why he never asked her out earlier," Ginny said. "Timing's a bit bad though, given what's happened lately."

"But - but he's from Slytherin!" Ron said this with the type of vehemence previously reserved for Viktor Krum.

"Blaise is also handsome, smart, polite, charming, accomplished and popular. A bit on the scarily clever side, but then so is Hermione."

Harry raised an eyebrow at Ginny. "_You've_ obviously had a lot of time to think about Zabini."

Ginny patted him on the arm consolingly. "You're handsome polite, charming, accomplished and popular too, Harry."

"Hey, you left out smart," Harry pointed out.

**

People were people, no matter if they travelled to work on broomstick or bus. Speaking in generalities, men liked sport. They also liked the manly, sport-loving company of other men. In the hotter months, they enjoyed cooking things in the outdoors, discussing work, renovations and the latest advances in lawn-mowing.

It could be said that wizards also had the same urges and penchants as regular men. Just because they had that extra _something_ in their genetic makeup that allowed them to _summon_ the morning newspaper from the front step (instead, like Mr. Granger, of darting outside in their underpants and hoping the neighbours don't notice) didn't make them necessarily better or more civilised.

Therefore it went that if there were bordellos and Houses of Ill Repute in the Muggle world, whatever you wanted to call them, then these places also existed in the Wizarding World. And at such places, the oldest trade in the world was plied just like it was in the Muggle world.

Draco was twenty minutes late, but Hermione was not yet willing to admit that standing in this particular corner of Knockturn Alley on her own, was fraying her nerves.

Nice witches did not traverse Knockturn Alley's many nooks and crannies without an escort. Nice witches went with friends, parents or nice wizards.

Draco Malfoy was _not_ a nice wizard to keep her waiting in such a…dare she say it, _rough_ part of town. But Hermione was no delicate flower. She would not be overcome by a fit of the vapours from a day's exposure to Wizarding London's Red Light District. She had faced the horrors of their day – Snape, Voldemort, Hagrid's cooking, etcetera - without lasting damage.

It hadn't taken her long to locate the Cobblestone, for all that there was an abundance of watering holes in Knockturn Alley. It was one of those places that people gravitated to, for business, or just to stand around and be part of the colourful scenery.

The Inn was ancient and looked less like a pub and lodgings than three backyard sheds placed one on top of another. Apparently, the same architectural genius responsible for the otherworldly wonder that was the Burrow, had also been employed to see to the Cobblestone's impressive façade.

For such a precarious looking building, there were an awful lot of pink and red frilly drapes. People came and went, looking quite happy to be there, for the most part. There were fairy lights (made from real fairies that upon close inspection looked either asleep or drunk) and a smoky-looking, neon sign, which had yet to be turned on or perhaps was not working.

There were also witches of all sorts loitering about. Tall ones, short ones, old and young, plain and extravagantly attractive, all seemingly dressed like they were sassy, smart-mouthed, saloon extras in some American cowboy flick.

Hermione went a bit red as she shuffled past a pretty, buxom young witch twirling a yellow parasol. She had on a matching corset and pantaloons under a red and black silk, oriental robe, and somehow made the whole ensemble work.

"Sightseeing, love?" the girl called out. A few other older ladies in the background cackled.

That rock-brained, peroxide-headed, pasty-faced wanker had probably known about the nature of the Inn and thought to embarrass her by demanding they meet directly outside.

Well, she would not give him the satisfaction. She made her way down the street, picked a nice, dingy lantern post and waited next to that instead.

And waited.

Hermione had resorted to reading the ingredients on the back of her lip balm when she felt someone take hold of her arm and lead her down from the pavement. At first she thought it was Draco, who was uncouth like that, but then she saw that it was someone else altogether and was promptly startled.

"I have a carriage waiting in the next street," said the man. He was well dressed and not that much older than herself.

"Good for you," she said, for lack of anything better to retort with. She wished she was carrying Hagrid's infamous pink umbrella.

Undaunted, the cretin took out a money bag which had been tied to his belt and jingled it, presumably for her benefit. "I pay more than the average," said the man. He had one blue eye and one green eye, which was unusual. The blue eye winked at her.

Oh, she was going to wring Malfoy's neck when he showed up.

_If_ he showed up. God, he was coming wasn't he?

"I'm not for sale," she told the man, angry in general at the plight of any woman who felt she had no choice but to peddle her body for a living. "Take your depraved cravings with you and piss off."

"Everything's for sale," he replied, smiling. And then reached out to touch a curl of her hair.

Appalled, Hermione sharply slapped his hand away.

Further down the street, several of the women from the Cobblestone were giving her hostile looks, but the majority looked amused.

_So much for keeping a low profile_, Hermione thought, with a sigh. The letch was still looking at her expectantly.

"You don't want that one, mate," said a familiar voice, "she'll put your balls in a vise, in more ways than the usual."

The Sun God had finally appeared, though his trademark golden head was covered by a black, Muggle baseball cap, pulled down low. The cap said 'Nutrisoil Fertilizer'.

Hermione read it again to make sure.

Only Draco Malfoy could wear advertising for packaged cow manure, and still look passable.

Hermione's would-be client remained where he was, either stupid or stubborn in the face of Malfoy's well-honed 'spooky voice'. She had seen first years run for the hills when Malfoy spoke to them like he had just done.

"Push off or there'll be a scene," he emphasised. His inner Lucius was getting a good workout.

The man didn't want a scene, apparently. Perhaps he was a wizard of some standing and had as much to lose as them should his presence there be broadcasted. Or perhaps he didn't see any benefit in a confrontation when there was plenty to go around. Giving Hermione a parting wink, (with the blue eye, again) he pocketed his money bag and whistled his way down the street.

"Urgh," Hermione exclaimed, feeling the need for a shower.

Draco turned on her. "Didn't your mother ever teach you to use your knee?" he asked crossly.

She glowered at him. "My mother taught me to use my head."

Some of his anger faded. "Yeah? A good head butt is called for, every so often."

Hermione ignored his attempt at humour and glanced down at her attire, wondering if she had inadvertently given off vibes that suggested she might charge in half hour increments. She was wearing a light, floral skirt, sandals and a tank top. On yes, she thought, wryly, she was the very definition of a 'woman of the night'.

Draco read her mind. "Cobbles caters for all sorts, lovey," he said, waggling his blond brows. "Believe it or not, some men have a thing for chaste, virginal types." He eyed her bare legs in a way that made her long for a baggy pair of jeans. She gave him withering look. "You're late, you know?"

"I had to take care of a few last minute things before I left," was all he said. He then took hold of her wrist and pulled her towards the Inn. "Come on. We're going to see if they have a room."

"You mean _rooms_," Hermione corrected. "And will you stop dragging me, I can walk." She had had quite enough of being jostled about by rude males that day.

"Well walk quicker, we're drawing attention."

"Says the young wizard wearing the fertilizer cap…" she muttered.


	29. Chapter 29

Author's Chapter Notes:

Underlined sections represent prompt lines that had to be incorporated into the story.

**Chapter Twenty-Nine**

"What do you mean only one room and only one bed?"

Hermione tugged subtly on the sleeve of Malfoy's t-shirt to let him know he was being loud and obnoxious. He brushed her hand away. Several departing patrons were eyeing them with interest. The pretty witch with the yellow parasol had even followed them inside the establishment and was currently looking at Malfoy as if he were a particularly nice pair of shoes that she could not afford, but would like to try on anyway.

"Look here," Malfoy said, stabbing his finger into the worn counter. "I sent an Owl ahead of time to make a reservation."

The innkeeper of the Cobblestone was apparently the poster person for Cheerfully Indifferent. "That you did, Mister Merrybones, sir. We received your letter and payment this morning. Thing is, sonny, we were fully booked from two weeks ago. It's this Cauldron Makers Convention, see? Every room in town's been taken. I'm afraid the only vacancy we have is a-"

Malfoy narrowed his eyes and _dared_ the man to say it.

"Single," the innkeeper finished, with a self-satisfied smile. Malfoy's uppity manner was obviously amusing to him.

"Just take it, will you?" Hermione prodded. "Forget the two rooms already."

She regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth. Malfoy transferred the full force of his displeasure onto her. It was like being blasted with an arctic wind. She took a step back to thaw out.

He was not enjoying some of the side effects of being incognito, namely the fact that people did not cower, did not throw rose petals at his feet or shove their young, unmarried daughters forward for 'Mr. George Merrybones', as they were wont to do for Mr. Draco Malfoy.

"I'll throw in a whole extra day's stay, for half of whatever she's chargin','" said the witch with the parasol, inclining her head towards Hermione.

Hermione glared at the girl, wondering at which point in time she had sidled up to Malfoy and pressed her lightly rouged bosom against his bicep. Malfoy, meanwhile, was looking down at her as one would an affectionate kitten you were a little too busy to pet at the moment, but if it could perhaps come back a little later?

"I happen to be his wife," Hermione said to the witch, tartly. She felt Malfoy's internal eyebrow rise upwards at this proclamation.

Well, sod them all. They were supposed to play the part of a married couple weren't they?

The witch grinned at her. "Uhuh. And I'm his _mama_." "Sally, would you mind?" the innkeeper asked, tiredly. "Am tyring to run a business."

"As am I," Sally the Strumpet replied, but she sashayed away without looking aggrieved. When she was at the entrance, she turned to blow a kiss at Malfoy.

Hermione resisted the urge to intercept the kiss and hurl it back at the girl's face.

"We can provide a few expansion charms at minimal cost, if that's too your liking?" the innkeeper was saying. He obviously sensed a potentially profitable encounter.

"That would be fine, thank you," Hermione rushed out, interrupting whatever it was Malfoy was about to threaten the man with. The git was still slightly distracted by Sally with The Swaying Hips.

The innkeeper cleared his throat, happy to have reached an accord. "I'll just refund you for the two rooms and write you a new invoice." He reached under the counter, but Draco stopped him. It would be better if there were no record of their stay.

Hermione drummed her fingers against the counter. She was actually rather eager to see what a Bordello invoice looked like.

"Keep the money." Additionally, Malfoy passed a small stack of Galleons across to the man. "For your discretion."

Apparently, this was not a new or surprising request, for the innkeeper merely nodded and neatly scooped up the money. "Discretion is our motto, young man. Now, you enjoy your stay at our fine establishment."

Satisfied that his plans had not gone too awry, Malfoy removed the Nutrisoil cap with a sigh of pleasure and ran a hand through his hair to unflatten it. It was just such a normal, 'boy' thing to do, and Hermione was struck by the fact that she liked seeing him be himself. He didn't do it very often.

In fact, the more time she spent in his company, the more she liked about him. Though you really needed to peel away all the many layers of insulating arrogance and ambivalence…

He was still these things, but they were not the sum of him. All the cloak and dagger nonsense did him good, apparently. He had a very attractive tint to his cheeks and his eyes were, for lack of a better word, sparkling.

"I think I like Knockturn Alley," he informed, giving her a lascivious smile.

Hermione didn't doubt it. It was _his_ kind of place.

**

The last time they had shared a room together, they had been blind drunk, laughing, happy, freshly tattooed and completely out of their minds with magic-induced lust. This time around, they were sober, both in body and in mind. There was a dark cloud of responsibility hanging over them, though Hermione was not to know that Draco's concerns were not only about his inheritance.

The spying business was weighing heavy.

Their room was the third, skinny, red door, along the curving corridor on the fourth floor. They had been given a key and a wash towel the size of Hermione's palm. The tiny little towel, to their joint amusement, was actually monogrammed. Hermione silently claimed it as a souvenir, to giggle over in better times.

"We put in a water closet, but best not to stay in there too long lest in collapses in on ye!" cackled the janitor. Who was also the bellboy-slash-doorman-slash-cook.

"Lovely," Malfoy said, blinking exactly twice. He launched up the stairs, careful not to touch the banister or the walls or the working ladies going up and down the establishment, lest common-ness proved to be something you could catch.

They had an awkward moment when they reached their room and stopped short at the threshold. Malfoy fiddled with a strap on his backpack and ushered her forward after the door was opened.

"Ladies first."

Surely she could not be blamed for thinking the worst of him before she considered the fact that he might have just been trying to be civil? A polite and courteous Draco Malfoy was rather like a ballroom dancing Harry Potter.

If you saw such a thing, you'd want to take a photo.

Hermione peered into the room, highly suspicious. It wasn't nearly as bad as she had anticipated. It was about the size of her room at Hogwarts. The bed was tiny, with a threadbare coverlet that had been darned to such an extent that it was more neatly joined scraps, rather than original duvet. But the floorboards were scrubbed clean and there was a pleasant lemony, furniture polish sort of scent. Beside the tiny bed, was a small dresser with a ceramic pitcher and base that screamed 'rustic'. There was also a window, but it was boarded up such that only slivers of afternoon sunshine managed to sneak through. The ceilings were slightly concave, but that was expected when you used expansion charms.

Perhaps someone had arranged an accident? Perhaps the expansion charms were faulty? Perhaps there was an inter-dimensional portal in the floor which would swallow her and spit her out over the Thames?

Hermione gave Draco a canny look. "You first."

He frowned at her and hiked his backpack further up his shoulder. "Get in, Granger."

"You get in!" she snapped, with growing hysteria.

He opened his mouth, gave her a disgusted look and then without any warning, picked her up. Hermione barely had time to squeal before she was unceremoniously carried into the room and dumped onto the bed. He loomed over her, looking acutely insulted.

"Still alive? Still in once piece? Limbs still attached?"

Blushing, she gave him a sheepish look. "Sorry! I'm just naturally er, cautious."

"If I really wanted to harm you, I'd..." he trailed off.

Hermione sighed. The bed was really quite comfortable. "Yes, yes, you would have done it by now."

He wasn't staring at _her_ anymore. He was staring at her leg. More precisely, he was staring at her damnable dragon tattoo.

Her skirt had ridden up. Suddenly feeling tremendously self-conscious, she blushed and smoothed her skirt down, but he dropped his backpack and caught her hand.

"No, let me look." His voice was incredibly gentle. It wasn't a demand, it was a suggestion. He took her leg just under her knee. "It's changed."

He flicked off her sandal and it thumped to the floor, sounding almost muted to Hermione. No doubt because blood seemed to be rushing past her ears at top speed, rendering all other sounds muffled. Her bare foot was pressed against his chest and she could feel the steady, strong thumping of his heart. His thumb and index finger squeezed her Achilles tendon lightly before he moved his hand slowly upwards, under her smooth calve.

He paused to cup her knee lightly. And then, with no urgency, he pushed her skirt aside, so that the thin, blue strap of her underwear was visible at her hip. Otherwise, he seemed careful to preserve her modesty.

"See here," he began, reminding a reeling Hermione a little of David Attenborough at his most enthusiastic, "it's not just silver anymore, it's _sparkling_ like you have diamond dust in your skin," he said, his voice thick. He ran a fingertip over the tail. "It doesn't look like it's been painted on, it looks like it's actually etched into your skin now. It even_ feels_ raised. Remarkable."

She shivered when his finger traced up the tail, over the hip bone and back again. And then his warm palm slid up under her thigh and then around, until he was effectively holding the inside of her thigh where the dragon's tail ended. Parts of her that seemed lately to be disconnected from the section of her brain that produced common sense, were alive, pulsing and needing. Unconsciously, she was arching up to him.

If he touched her, her better judgement would crumble and there would be no going back. Still, she wanted it.

She wanted to be caught up in that same time-pausing whirlwind that made her forget about every other care she had apart from where he would touch her next. He had that ability, which was why he was dangerous.

Hermione wondered if he felt the same way about her. It had become an ache within her. It was as if they were two attracting magnets, called to each other and yet trying their best to maintain safe distance. It was becoming tiring.

He was almost straddling her, over the tiny bed. It seemed a threatening and precarious position for her to be in, but she'd spent the previous evening bundled an affectionate, unguarded Draco and there was very little fear left in her.

Oh there was _some_, but it wasn't an overpowering distraction any more.

His fingers tensed experimentally into her soft, pale flesh and then released, leaving a very faint, red imprint.

"Your skin's like rose petals," he breathed. The unfeigned reverence in his voice gave her chills. "You bruise too easy."

She looked up at him, his beautiful eyes were downcast and he was so close to her she thought she could count each dark, blond eyelash. His fringe tickled her nose.

"Maybe we should have pushed for two rooms after all," she said.

Abruptly, Draco shook his head, as if that would clear the fog that had descended over the both of them. He cleared his throat, got off the bed and went to stand by the window. He made a show of looking out between the boarded slats at the human traffic below.

The expression on his face was unreadable. They were silent for a painfully long, minute.

"This is not how I planned to spend the last few weeks of my final year." There was a melancholy in his voice which Hermione knew was more than just the bother of Fida Mia.

His words also spun possibilities in the air between them.

"I'm sorry," she said. She really was, too. She was sorry for being weak on the night of the party, sorry for her bad judgement, sorry for not looking out of the both of them when she could have prevented the disaster. Sorry for being away from Harry and the others when they needed her.

She was just _sorry_.

Her shoulders slumped. To her horror, she felt hot tears welling up.

Malfoy was looking at her oddly. "Come here," he said.

She went to him, shaking a bit and with only one shoe. If what she thought was happening between them was really happening, they had terrible timing.

It was a strange thing, to feel the safest she had ever felt, standing within the warm circle of the arms of the person who had once been her enemy. Maybe all enemies could be friends or lovers if you gave them half a chance. Maybe nothing was ever written in stone, no matter how sure you were.

As always, he smelled unbelievable. Laundry soap. Clean skin. Draco.

The bump on his forehead was almost completely healed up. She couldn't help herself and didn't bother trying. She prodded at it.

"Still not friends?" she asked him.

He sighed. It was a beautiful, warm day outside. And they had a few hours to kill before their scheduled meeting with the Fida Mia expert.

**

**An excerpt from Hermione's notes on Fida Mia (from Chapter Six).**

_- 1762. Danish Charms expert and famed polygamist, Lars Hendricks, upon being denied official Ministry permission to marry his five lovers, developed a personalised marriage ritual. Fida Mia was selected as the base of the invented enchantment. Note of interest: Lars was later prosecuted and fined by local authorities for improper magical 'handling' of a goat. Note to self: look up any association with 'Aberforth Dumbledore'. _

_- 1800. Fida Mia, the marriage spell was developed by the Hendricks family (numbering some thirty-six members) and marketed as a fashionable marriage alternative to 'staid' wizarding marriage vows. And less than a hundred years later, the spell was declared illegal in Britain, but was still practiced in parts of Eastern Europe._

**

The young man removed his jacket, pocket watch and cufflinks, tossing the latter two onto a coffee table. He rolled up his sleeves, kicked off his shoes and unfastened the first two buttons of his fine, white shirt. There was a worn sofa in a corner of the room and he collapsed into it, looking thoughtful.

An elderly, silver-haired woman, stooped but far from frail, walked into the room bearing a tray of lemonade.

They usually celebrated a successful con with a stiff drink, but his great-grandmother's health was not what it used to be. So, it was lemonade these days, or sometimes a nice, mulled wine if it was particularly cold.

"Feet off the table, please," the old lady said, setting her tray down. "I may only be renting, but I rather like this place."

"The lounge smells like dead weasel."

She she poured him a glass. "Well? How are our young lovebirds getting on?"

He accepted the drink and stared up at her with worry in his mismatched eyes. They were identical to hers – one green and one blue - a curious trait which marked them as being from the same, curious family. Only hers were notably cloudy with age.

"They're _children_, Nana." "Pah, they're not children! The boy's seen more than you have. When I was their age I already had three children and was running the family business." The woman stood with her hand on her broad hip and adjusted her monocle. " I think you should have picked better candidates. We could be the cause of quite a bit of trouble. Did you know the boy's father is a Death Eater? The girl happens to be a good friend of Harry Potter."

Nana Hendricks waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. "Yes, that odious man, Borgin, mentioned it. I of course said I had no idea what a Death Eater was."

The young man gaped at her. "You can't be serious."

"When it comes to the family business, I am always serious, my boy."

"Next you'll be telling me you have no idea who this Voldemort chap is…"

The old woman nodded. "Ah, now _that_ name I know. Had a bit of a run in with him in an alley down in Copenhagen forty years ago. He was watering a wall."

"You are such a fibber, Nana."

She gave her great-grandson a beady eyed look. "You haven't been working with me long enough to know when I'm fibbing."

He made a frustrated sound. "Back to the matter at hand, I think we have a problem."

"Nonsense!" she patted him on the knee. "We have never encountered a problem before and I've been doing this for almost a century. _You_ are much better at this than your dear great-grandfather. That man had a face that was too honest, by far."

Her great-grandson was giving her a sceptical look.

"The game has always been the same," she continued, with familial pride. "I, mysterious old crone of lamentable oral hygiene, marry the pair." She clapped her hands together. "They wake up; they panic when the charm starts to take effect. They look high and low for a cure. Lo' there just happens to be an expert in town that very week! _You_ step in with a timely, rare and expensive cure, where previously they assumed there was none. It's a very tidy living, if I say so myself."

He folded his arms. "Except there's no _real_ cure for _real_ Fida Mia."

The old woman frowned at him. "Yes, I know that, lad, my own grand-dad invented the spell after all." "What I mean to say is that there won't be a cure for _this_ pair."

The old lady was very quick on the uptake, despite her grand age. Her monocle fell from its perch. "Come again?"

"The spell has taken! For real this time!"

She sat down heavily beside him on the sofa and put a wrinkled hand to her throat. "I haven't successfully cast Fida Mia in over eighty years." She glanced up at him with a frown. "Are you sure? Are you very sure?"

"Of course I'm sure! Just standing next to them was like wading through honey."

She gasped, looking astonished. "Yes! Yes, that's what it feels like. For us anyway. We read it differently, us Hendrickses…"! "You're supposed to pick _bad_ matches, Nana. That's the whole point. The couple balks because the spell doesn't fit, and we reap the benefits when we take the bloody charm off. We can't do that if it's _permanent._"

"I never said they looked to be a good match!" she protested. The young man stood up. "We should disappear. London's been good to us. I'd hate to never be able to work here again."

She shook her head. "Oh, no! I want to see this for myself. Call me a sentimental old fool, but each case is different. Unique. If you say the spell has actually stuck this time, I'd like to take a look."

"We can't offer them a cure, you realise? Pity, the boy's rich. We could have charged three times the usual price and he'll still pay it."

The old woman shrugged. "That may be so, but we can still charge for _consultation_, my boy."

Yes, they could, couldn't they? Her great-grandson smiled at her. Working in the family business was turning out better than he could have anticipated.

The Hendrickses had always been a very pragmatic family.


	30. Chapter 30

**Chapter Thirty**

It occurred to Draco that Borgin had arranged a meeting with their hired expert in the late afternoon, but had requested that Draco secure a room at the Cobblestone several hours in advance.

Now, why was that, Draco wondered?

Lucius used to request that potential business partners turn up early at a meeting, whereupon an already arrived Lucius would lay in wait to observe them. His father explained that you could tell a lot about a person when they didn't think you were watching them. Bad habits, impulses, likes and dislikes.

The strategy must have worked for his father because Lucius did tremendously well in whatever venture he set his sights on.

Except for his marriage, of course. Women were the exception to the rule, apparently.

Were they being observed then? Draco doubted it was anything to do with Borgin. It might have been their mysterious 'expert', eager to have a gander at his well-paying clients before their scheduled meeting.

Draco did not like mysteries.

What he _also_ did not like, was having to spend a tension-laden, three hours, cooped up in a tiny room with a fidgety Hermione Granger.

Luckily, his stomach offered a timely suggestion, reminding him that he had been skipping too many meals lately. It would take time to find a decent feed, have it, and then return to the Inn. Why, a trip to find a meal might even take him up to three hours if he really tried hard.

He could have asked her if she wanted him to bring her something, but that seemed too intimate, too personal.

His previous experiment with politeness had resulted in Granger indirectly accusing him of plotting her demise and had culminated with him lying on top of the stupid girl touching her in stupid places. So he would stick with the tried and true method of blunt rudeness and would offer her neither his company nor a late lunch.

She smelled like roses and every time she came within a meter of him, all he seemed to want to do, was grab a handful of her curls and bury his face into her hair.

Ok, _yes_, he wanted to do a lot more to her than just that, but he'd damned if he gave in to his baser urges. His cock might have developed an addiction to her, but his brain was the one calling the shots.

Most of the time.

It was like his mother used to say, _"one annoyance at a time, darling, and if you find yourself with too many, then you need more staff"._ Pansy was not there to act as a calming buffer, Crabbe was long gone, Millicent gave good advice when not in the throes of teenage hormones, Goyle was not there to provide a testosterone boost. Zabini was…

Hmm. What _was_ Zabini? Blaise was a brain, like Granger, and nice enough decoration, but he'd always remained a bit separate from the rest of them. Draco had always assumed that the boy had political aspirations, which was why he made such an effort to be cordial to everyone.

Even Hufflepuffs.

Blaise would have been the better choice to recruit as spy for the Ministry. He mixed around more and was more well-liked than Draco. And yet, it had been he, Draco, who had been tasked with the long term assignment of weeding out potential Voldemort supporters.

Draco scoffed. Arthur Weasley, Dumbledore and the whole bloody Ministry could go to hell…_except_. that it was his inheritance and birthright on the line.

Was that worth his friends, though?

Were they really his friends? It was a quandary, being a Slytherin with friends. It didn't take a genius to work out that Potty and the Weasel would have thrown themselves under a bus if it meant the ensured safety of the people they cared about. That was the sort of cheesy bravado that came from Gryffindor House.

Slytherins were more practical. A Slytherin would calmly enquire if there was someone of influence who could be bribed, bashed or bedded, before even contemplating self sacrifice.

_Granger is a person of influence. Perhaps I should keep the girl in my bed and see where that might get me?_

The thought held a new and definite allure. It struck him as very odd indeed that he had not been viewing her as a potential step ladder or as a means to a better bargain with the Ministry, rather than a bothersome dalliance he wanted to be rid off. It was unlike him to ignore the silver lining of this current dark cloud.

She was sitting on the edge of the bed, fixing the strap on the sandal he had taken off her foot. As he thought this, she turned to look at him with brown eyes that could hold no malice even if someone had managed to bottle the stuff and injected it directly into her eyeballs.

There was a sickening sweetness to her. She was a novelty, something he had little experience with and as a result, found fascinating. She was like Potter, in that regard, they had that same unblemished innocence about them. They were the type of people who would only have fleeting unkind thoughts about someone in the privacy of their own minds, and even then, would still chastise themselves about it.

Draco sighed. He knew why he couldn't do it. Why he couldn't keep her. But to admit it was a fate worse than death.

"I'm going to get out for a bit. Wait here for me," he told her, brusquely.

"Oh?" she stood up, looking pleased to have an excuse to speak. "Are you going to look for something to eat? If so, I'll go with you."

_No, you enormous twit. I don't want you to come with me. You're staying here,_ his brain prodded at him to say. _If you follow me, I might snap._

"Fine. Whatever," was what actually came out. He found he was too hungry to put up much resistance.

Draco retrieved his Nutrisoil cap and ignored her small smile when he put it on.

**

It took them half an hour to walk a hundred meters, it was that crowded in Diagon Alley. They passed by several stalls that were selling extremely barbequed things on sticks. Several people could be spotted walking around, carrying said sticks and tearing out bites of the stringy looking meat. The expressions on their faces did not bode well.

"Florean Fortescue's is packed," Hermione remarked. She was standing on the pavement on her toes to get a better look. "I don't think we've got a chance of even getting inside any of the other pubs."

"I'm not eating rat on a stick," Draco muttered.

The corner of her mouth twitched. "I think the man said it was quail."

"Quail does not have a long, skinny _tail_."

She laughed. It was the first time he had heard her do so, in such a manner, in his presence. So distracted was he, that he allowed himself to be pulled up onto the pavement beside her.

"Not a worry," Hermione told him, sounding every bit Hogwart's Head Girl. "We'll go Muggle."

He lost her twice as they squeezed their way through Diagon Alley, en route to the Leaky Cauldron. She wasn't exactly a midget, but she wasn't willing to use her elbows to maintain her personal space in the throng.

Irritated, he placed her in front of him, buffeted against his chest and onwards they proceeded. This afforded him about five minutes of close proximity with her scented hair, which in turn made him as hard as rock. Once or twice, she stood flush against his torso, her soft bottom pressed up against the front of his pants. If she felt the evidence of his apparent and great 'dislike' of her, she didn't say anything.

Draco pulled the cap down low over his forehead as they rushed through the Leaky Cauldron, and exited into Muggle London.

They walked for twenty minutes, approaching Kings Cross station. There were a few small eateries off Euston Road and she slowed down so that he could have a look.

Draco felt the same general unease he felt whenever he ventured into Muggle territory. It was like trying to put your foot into a shoe that didn't fit and not being able to complain about it. If it was dark, he could not cast Lumos. If they needed directions, he could not cast a Compass Spell. It was like having your right hand tied behind your back.

There was smog, and homeless people and teenagers with about a kilo of metal poked through their faces and cars that went too fast, but there was also blessed space and not a barbequed rat in sight.

There _was_ barbequed duck hanging from hooks in one Chinese restaurant, but no rat.

"What do you feel like?" she asked.

_Going back_, he wanted to say, but he didn't.

They had stopped beside a narrow eatery, the likes of which Draco had not seen before. There were hard red stools stuck into the ground, arranged around an oval-shaped train track upon which a miniature train was bearing colourful plates of food around on a fixed loop. In the middle of the loop was a preparation area where two young men of Asian persuasion were chopping, dicing, rolling and wrapping with impressive dexterity.

The diners took the plates from the train and the two young men replenished the train's load with more. There was a pleasant, warm, earthy smell coming from the bowls of steaming broth that the waitresses were ferrying on trays.

"We'll eat here," he said, very intrigued.

It wasn't a busy afternoon at the restaurant, given that it was about two hours after the lunch time peak hour. A little girl of about four or five, her hands dotted with sticky rice openly gawked at Draco as he walked pass her. She tugged at her father's shirt sleeve to try and get the man's attention.

"Maybe I should take the cap off?" he suggested. "People are giving me strange looks." He sent the little girl across the room a hostile glare and she immediately gasped and then covered her mouth to giggle.

Hermione bit her lower lip to stop her smile. The little girl wasn't staring at the cap, exactly.

"I don't think you're in danger of being recognised at a Euston Street Sushi Bar, Malfoy."

He took this as encouragement and whipped off his Fertilizer Advertisement. They took a seat at two stools farthest away from the entrance (at Draco's insistence). Within seconds, a young woman with a jaunty, checked apron and a badge that announced her to be _'Fay, Sushi Hut'_ approached them. "Green tea or miso?" she asked automatically, chewing gum and flipping pages in her order pad.

Draco had just located the napkin dispenser and took his time spreading a paper napkin across his lap. Hermione watched him with undisguised amusement..

"What is mee-so?" he asked, quite politely, actually.

The waitress probably wasn't presented with this question very often. She looked from her order pad to Draco, expecting to see the type of tourist who considered sushi a 'try once before you die' activity.

What she saw was six feet and one inch of lean, lightly muscled Seeker's body currently arranged in a seating position on a red stool; pale, fine skin that came from careful breeding, rather than a fondness for staying indoors; white blond hair that was too long around the fringe and that curled around the collar; and light grey eyes that were flecked through with blue if you stood close enough to notice.

She was basically looking at ten generations of selective, _magical_ breeding and she had Hermione's full understanding.

In the homely, little sushi bar, Malfoy exuded a faint, shiny-ness.

Hermione cleared her throat and propped her chin on her palm. The waitress glanced at her distractedly, and then said. "Oh, um it's basically a stock boiled with seaweed, tofu and mushrooms."

Hermione doubted if Malfoy registered what tofu was, but at least he didn't turn his nose up at mention of seaweed.

"Good. We'll have a pot of tea and a bowl of miso, each. That sound alright?" Hermione asked, out of courtesy.

"Fine," Draco said. He was studying the small, laminated menu with amusing intensity.

He had apparently used chop sticks before and had no trouble handling them after Hermione pointed out that he had not in fact been given the one, 'giant, faulty chopstick' (he had been about to call the waitress to complain), but that they came stuck together.

"Oh," he said. Looking confident now, he snatched the first four plates that went past and set them in front of him.

Hermione choked on her first gulp of steaming hot, green tea. "Malfoy, you can pick whatever you want, you know. You don't have to take the first thing that comes past."

He looked up at her, his Inari held quite confidently in his chopsticks. "I thought I was picking what I wanted?"

The waitress arrived with their tea and miso. The amount he ate would have given her pause, except that Hermione had routinely seen Ron and Harry put away similar sized meals. Though she doubted she could get Ron to so much so much as touch a California roll, let alone eat three in one sitting.

"What is that?" he asked, poking at some bright orange, fish roe on his gunkansushi.

She told him.

"Caviar, then," he decided, and ate it.

They had a small argument when she noticed him spooning a lethal amount of 'avocado paste' over his food.

"Uh, Malfoy, that's much too much wasabi."

He ignored her, ate it and then started coughing.

"Tea?" she asked, blandly.

He snatched the cup as soon as she finished pouring out the tea and drained it.

An hour later, there were fourteen small plates stacked beside Draco and four beside Hermione.

"Granger, I don't have any Muggle money on me."

Hermione shrugged and dug inside her bag for her wallet. "Good, because I'm getting this. You paid for the room."

He didn't like it, but there wasn't much he could do about it. So he waited outside to stare at the traffic, while she paid for their meal at the cashier.

"That was nice," he said, when she joined him.

It was his way of thanking her, she knew that. Hermione suddenly felt uncomfortable, as if something as simple as a thankyou was too personal for them to dabble with.

"Yes, it was."

They took a slow walk. For once, Draco did not feel the need to set his breakneck speed and she didn't have to jog beside him to keep up. It seemed that neither of them were overly eager to return to their room.

"Can I ask you something?" she asked him, when they crossed the street to get to the side of the road where the Leaky Cauldron was.

She was staring at the ground. Whatever it was, it embarrassed her.

"When has anyone ever stopped you from asking a question," was his response. That came out more sarcastic than he intended and he felt something flicker within him when he noted her slight flinching.

But she was Granger, and she pushed on.

"The night of the party, when I approached you. You seemed a little…bemused. What were you thinking?"

Ah, so she finally wanted to go _there_.

"I was bored. Goyle was already drunk. Parkinson was cross with me for something I can't now recall. You came to the Hall late and you'd just had a shower or something, your hair was wet and you were all…pink." He touched her earlobe briefly, an intense look in his eyes. "You looked about as fed up with being there as I was. I wondered what you'd do if I asked you downstairs to the dungeons with me. I figured it might have been the time to ask."

She looked at him. "Really?"

He nodded. They passed by a gaggle of school girls, who stared at him as they elbowed each other. "Really."

"But you didn't like me," she insisted.

Draco noticed she used 'didn't instead of 'don't'. Presumptuous chit.

"Not liking you had nothing to do with wanting to bend you over the nearest stair railing."

Her eyes widened. "I see. And how long have you felt that, er, way?"

Draco snorted. He stopped her before they reached the entrance to the pub. "What makes you think I still feel that way?"

She seemed to be weighing her words carefully. "Your passions are…we'll they're not dainty. I can sort of feel them because of the spell, but I reckon I'd noticed without Fida Mia."

The girl was once again fishing for a declaration. Well she could fish all she wanted, he wasn't about to lay his head on the executioner's block for the likes of her.

He rolled his eyes. "Compared to Weasley, for example? That boy might get his fill groping under a school skirt in the bushes, but I should think you know where my inclinations lie." His voice had taken on a soft, languorous tone.

She blushed to the roots of her hair. He could see it, even in the failing light. Hermione Granger was the most ridiculous combination of practicality and school girly-ness he had ever encountered. He wanted to make her blush some more.

"I'm trying to make sense of what exactly this spell has done to us. Where we end and where it starts."

He decided to be blunt. "You mean you want to know if I've wanted to fuck you for some time now or if it's just a recent development?"

Hermione looked away, mortified. "I can't believe we're having this conversation…"

"Hey, you asked."

She sucked in a calming breath and then turned to glare at him. "Yes, but do you have to be so deliberately provocative in answering?"

He humoured her. "You bring out the worst in me. I'll acknowledge that. Before Fida Mia, wanting you was confined to daydreams in History of Magic. After Fida Mia…" he gave her a pointed look, though there was less warmth in his stare now. "I've always had a collector's eye."

"I see," she said. She paused for a moment, and then said, "What happened when Dumbledore summoned you to his office that afternoon the Mark was sighted?"

That was the last thing he had been expecting her to ask. He didn't like it. For a short while, he had forgotten. He narrowed his eyes at her. "You don't get to ask about that."

"Why not? Don't you trust me?" she asked. "I trust you, despite what you think."

"Then you give your trust too easily."

"Like that afternoon in the Prefects' Bath?"

"That was a mistake which I have already apologised for," he cut in. This was getting out of hand. She was a like a bear looking for honey. "Have you finished your questions? We're going back now."

"Wait."

"Enough," he said, in a soft, threatening manner. She was blocking the entrance. "We're going to be late."

Hermione groaned. "Why is it that we can't ever seem to maintain a conversation without you storming off in a huff?"

He rounded on her, insulted. "I am never in a huff!"

She had worked herself up into a right lather. Her hand was on her hip and her brown eyes were spitting fire at him. "You might find this hard to believe, but most people don't find me intolerable."

"You're tolerable enough when you keep your mouth shut," he told her. "I can think of a few, pleasant ways to achieve that end." He stared at her mouth.

She shifted uncomfortably. "Stop that."

"Stop interrogating me and get out of the way before I pick you up and carry you through that door."

Hermione gave him a long, speculating look. "Your parents really did a number on you, didn't they?

Draco wasn't entirely sure what that meant, but he felt the correct response was to hit below the belt. "No more than Potter's."

It didn't work. She just looked more determined to draw him into an argument.

"Harry's parents are dead."

"It could be argued that mine are as well."

Granger threw her hands up in the air. "Draco, you don't have to go through life acting like a reflecting pool for their mistakes. Don't you ever get tired of being so bloody tortured all the time! Let some sunlight in before you shrivel up and die from all this angst!"

She didn't just cross the line, she'd vaulted over it. He grabbed her by her shoulders and lifted her up off the ground, shaking her like a wayward puppy. Her sandaled feet dangled three inches from the floor. The expression on her face dared him to do his worst, but there was a flicker of fear there as well.

He was glad to see it. He'd let her get too brazen.

"I realise you are the most irritating thing to ever exist in three dimensions, but do you really have to prove that so often? You are not privy to my innermost thoughts, Granger! Ask your questions but don't expect me to get all deep and meaningful with you because I've had you. You are not the keeper of my heart. My heart, such as it is, and my cock are two very different things. I am here not because I want to be here, but because I have to be here. This is a means to an end, do you understand? You may forget yourself, but don't forget who I am," he seethed, and for a moment, she was pinned by the ferocity in his eyes.

He released her and she slumped against him. He must have been a bit out of sorts himself, because he permitted this before he took a step away from her and ran a hand through his hair.

"Now, I'm going back, with or without you."

It would have to be _with_, because he had taken her hand and pulled her along with him.


	31. Chapter 31

**Chapter Thirty-One**

Blaise Zabini was eight years old when he discovered he was a Metamorphmagus.

Of course, at the time, he hadn't known that there was a name for his peculiar ability. As is often the case with young children of magical stock, the appearance of Blaise's magical traits happened quite by accident.

It occurred not long after the day his mother had taken him aside for a home hair cut. He had been partial to his long hair, but it wasn't seemly for a boy, or so this mother had said. Off it came and Blaise had been exceedingly cross about it for weeks.

And then, one day, while his parents were downstairs entertaining his mother's visiting relatives, Blaise had climbed up onto a chair and stood in front of the mirror in his bedroom and _willed_ his hair to grow back.

It did. All at once and in about ten seconds flat. He hadn't been expecting this and nearly toppled off the chair in shock.

Afraid of what his mother would say (or ask), he took pains to cut it all off again and did not walk pass any mirrors for a month. Later, he realised he could control the skill, and indeed, he recognised it to be a _skill._

There were books written about it. It was a rare and important enough ability that he would have to submit his name to the Ministry, if he told.

He didn't tell.

By the age of ten, he could be anyone he wanted, provided he had been in their presence for long enough to note what they looked like from all angles.

Being a Metamorphmagus was just one of many things nobody knew about Blaise Zabini. As an only child, his parents gave him a wide berth and were duly pleased with his sterling performance in his studies and with his standing as a pupil of high regard at Hogwarts. He came from a wealthy and privileged background, though certainly not as wealthy and privileged as say, the Malfoys or the Parkinsons before Pansy's father had squandered the family fortune away.

If he was a bit too aloof, a bit too calculating for their liking, his parents dismissed this as the product of a very proper upbringing.

Presently, Blaise Zabini was standing inside the doorway of a seamstress shop, closed for the day, some four buildings away from the Cobblestone Inn. Despite being what he was, Blaise did not feel the need to wear a different skin. The sun had set and the dark would provide more than adequate cover.

Also, he never could maintain a morphed state for very long, when he was feeling particularly drained. It was a lot like trying to mould a block of clay using only your elbows. The end result was less than finished. It had been an intensely trying week for him and he had had a lot on his plate.

Earlier in the day, he had made a quick trip to look in on the Auror he had captured. _Inadvertently captured_, he reminded himself, with a grimace. He was very good at what he did, but had to admit that he was becoming cocky.

He had made a rare mistake in allowing himself to be spotted on his way out of the Castle on Thursday evening. For reasons he did not wish to dwell on, his first instinct had been to take on Draco's appearance. That had bought him some time, but he had not been expecting Nymphadora Tonks to call him out for what he truly was.

The death of the male Auror (what was his name? Bligh?) had been an unfortunate necessity. 'Unfortunate' in the sense that people tended to get nervous when Aurors went missing, especially if such a thing were to happen on school grounds that were being monitored so closely by Ministry law enforcement.

Still, it was a thrill to be able to use one of the precious Death Portals Wormtail had given him the previous week. They were small enough for him to carry, concealed inside his clothes.

Wherever Bligh went, he was now dead and gone. Sadly, the pretty Auror with the sharp tongue that he was keeping in the makeshift Death Eater barracks would meet a similar fate. She was a spirited thing and reminded him of Hermione.

The only good thing to come out of the kidnapping was that nearly all the students had returned home early for the summer holidays, and the investigation had been moved back to the Ministry. It was now possible to move around the nearly deserted Hogwarts without needing to shift into a teacher, a patrolling Auror or anyone else, for that matter.

Blaise went from bored and impatient, to quietly interested, when he finally spotted the object of his mission that evening. He had certainly waited long enough for them to return after following Granger from Hogwarts to Knockturn Alley.

Draco was wearing a cap and so was harder to spot if you were looking for his telltale head of hair. Granger was easy enough to notice, though. Her shoulder length curls were loosely tied up, but Blaise unfailingly recognised her. He also knew, even from some distance away, that she was frowning slightly. The smooth, creamy skin between her eyes, an inch above where her freckles appeared on the bridge of her nose, would be delicately creased.

She did that when troubled and it was clear that she was troubled now. No doubt Malfoy was the reason for the frown. He was dragging her down the street and up to the Cobblestone Inn with a clenched jaw and an extremely tense expression.

There was little about Hermione Granger that Blaise had not taken close notice off over the past year. He thought it odd, given that he did not think nor expect that he would ever become attached to anyone, in such a fashion.

She was…she was _different_, wasn't she? Something boys like him and Malfoy could admire from a far, but never touch. Not banal, like other Gryffindors. Not austere, like Ravenclaws or possessed of no imagination, like most Hufflepuffs.

Oh yes, she was a tad wound up, but she more than made up for this with her other, more pleasing attributes.

She had a mind made for organisation and if given the right impetus, leadership. It was all there in her foundations. Potter trusted her judgement implicitly. Apart from wholeheartedly approving of her intellect, Dumbledore considered her a necessary temperance for Potter's more impulsive tendencies.

Potter was a chapter in a history book. He was a Chocolate Frog Card. His lot was to fall in battle, a martyr for the ages. Harry accepted this and he tried to live his life in a way that would prepare him and his loved ones, for it. There were times when Blaise admired the boy, almost.

Granger's destiny was more uncertain. If Blaise had his way - and he often did - he would attempt to cloud it even more. He had thought about making his interest in her known, over the past few months, but they had been busy months and it wasn't everyone who could handle NEWTS, a School Captaincy and a Death Eater apprenticeship all at once.

It was because he fancied himself enamoured with Hermione, and as a result noticed so much about her, that he soon worked out that she had recently become involved with someone.

Not just any fellow student, but someone she didn't want anyone to know about.

First, it had been her surreptitious reading of the book on Fida Mia, in the library. That had set alarm bells ringing once he discovered what the spell was all about.

She had disappeared in the middle of the Seventh Year Graduation Party a fortnight ago, and Blaise had noted that the only other person conspicuously missing was Draco Malfoy.

But that pairing would have been absurd.

And yet, it was also true.

The protective way Malfoy had acted towards her when the Dark Mark was sighted over the forest had almost confirmed it. Blaise prided himself on his ability to catalogue such details.

After the bludger accident on the pitch, Pansy had told everyone who had been willing to hear, that she would sneak down to the Infirmary to check on Malfoy the morning after.

She had stormed back to the dungeons in tears. Apparently, Draco already had a visitor.

The Dark Mark incident in the forest could have been a monumental blunder for their cause. Blaise had made his thoughts known to Wormtail during their meeting the previous week. Of all the wands the Death Eaters could have stolen, they simply _had_ to go and supply him with Lucius Malfoy's, Ministry-tainted wand.

Casting the Mark was supposed to have been a moment of significance for Blaise. His first Morsmorde for the service! And the blasted thing had transformed into the Malfoy family symbol, right before his very eyes.

Why did everything _have_ to revolve around Draco Malfoy?

It had been easy enough to organise the rogue Bludgers that had so very nearly put an end to Tandish Dodders. Blaise had a proven talent for laying traps. Putting Malfoy in harm's way was the means by which he could be sure of Granger's feelings for the boy.

Being inconveniently afflicted with a binding marriage spell was one thing, being in love with your husband was quite another.

Blaise had to make sure. For all he knew, he was jumping to wild, improbable conclusions.

Of course, using Dodders as an excuse had been ideal. The child had a long standing vendetta against Malfoy. Had either of them perished as a result of the incident, questions would not need to be asked. Intra-House enmity was a sensitive issue and Slytherin House was nothing if not secretive.

There were many reasons why Malfoy was not suited to being a Death Eater. One was the fact that he expressed no interest in such a life, after the very public downfall of his father. The other was the fact that he had been willing to walk into danger to prevent harm to an utterly useless classmate.

Blaise has known Draco would do it. He had been _counting_ on it. The son of a bitch had certainly not disappointed. Perhaps there was a bit of Potter in Malfoy after all. Maybe this was what Hermione saw.

It had been acutely painful to sit in the Deputy Headmistress's office and witness Granger go pale and wraith-like at what Blaise could only guess was realisation that something had happened to her husband on the pitch. He wanted to shake her. Slap her.

He wanted to see that look of horror and worry for _him_, not Malfoy. His little test had worked and his suspicions were confirmed.

After that day, he decided that he would very much like to arrange Malfoy's death.

Doing so without the Dark Lord's approval was going to be tricky, but not impossible. His Master wanted Malfoy recruited post haste, despite at least a dozen other followers insisting that the boy could never be trusted.

The Dark Lord would not listen. If Albus Dumbledore had Harry Potter, than he, Voldemort would groom his own star pupil. His protégé. It _should_ have been Blaise. Anyone with a half a brain could see that.

What was it his Master had said? _The sins of the father would not determine the future of the son_. Or some such horse shit that owed to Tom Riddle's baggage about his own sire.

Merlin, but the man could crap on when he wanted to.

_Voldemort._ He was a bigger waste of time and talent than Harry Potter. To have built a following inspired by fear, a name that people still dreaded to mention, to have that much power in one being and to use it so foolishly.

The regime would never last. Voldemort did not have the foresight or the policies to make it last.

Blaise did, though. He had long term plans that did not begin and end with the death of Harry Potter. Voldemort would not reign forever. Blaise's ambitions were not the smoky, elusive stuff of Voldemort's. They were solid.

He had already swayed a few senior Death Eaters to his way of thinking. Subtly, of course. To them, he was a rising lieutenant among Voldemort's thinning ranks. A useful tool. A necessity, even.

His future within the Dark Order was not in doubt.

And events continued to unfold in the meantime. He had a captured Auror to dispose of, a traitor's son to ensnare, and a girl to woo.

It was inevitable, wasn't it? The Wizarding World could not continue on its current course, resigned to the fringes and backwaters of civilisation, while the Muggles developed their science and technology.

The world of Magic could not remain hidden indefinitely. Even Dumbledore could see this. New, proactive leadership was needed, and if Blaise had to lie, cheat, steal or murder to achieve that end, so be it.

What were a few lives against the greater good?

But despite these grand plans at so tender an age, despite his undeniable magical talents and a mind that was genius with a useful dash of paranoia, Blaise was also an eighteen year old boy who got sweaty palms whenever he spoke to the girl he liked.

The girl was with another, however.

He would have to do something about that. It would not do to simply sit back and wait until the Hermione Granger came back to her senses.


	32. Chapter 32

**Chapter Thirty-Two**

Borgin was early. He was waiting for them outside the Cobblestone, looking just a bit embarrassed by the attention he was receiving from several of the loitering working girls.

He was sporting his usual, dark and greasy-looking clothing, the type of attire that allowed a person to blend more easily into Knockturn Alley's more seamy nooks and crannies. All in all, he was much the same since Draco had last seen him, though he had less hair now, making the sheen on his long forehead all the more pronounced.

"Miss Granger, an honour to finally meet you," he said, smoothly. He held out his hand for her to shake, fingers curled slightly.

Draco had not mentioned her name in his letter to Borgin, and to the man's credit, his shock did not transfer across to his greeting. It probably took a lot to surprise Emmanuel Borgin, Draco conceded.

"Hello." Hermione's response was curt, cool. She ignored the offered hand.

She had probably never met Borgin before, but Draco supposed that she knew him by reputation. They may have required his particular brand of expertise, but Granger made it quite clear she did not approve of Borgin, the person.

"Well, then," Borgin said, his eyes growing just a little bit hard at the obvious snubbing. "Young Malfoy, shall we proceed?"

Hermione fired off her first question. Draco seemed to trust Borgin, but if they thought she was going anywhere with them without finding out a few details first, they were crazy.

"Where are we going, exactly?"

Borgin spoke as he walked. "I have arranged for the consultation to take place at the man's residence."

"How far?"

"It's not very far from here."

"How did you find this expert? I can't see such a person advertising his services in the local paper?"

Borgin paused to give Draco a 'does she always do this' kind of look, before answering. "I asked around after I was contacted by Draco and soon came to know that a particular foreigner with certain talents had settled in London recently. I assure you, the man is very professional. For all that he's chosen to set up shop in this part of Magical London, his resume is sterling."

"Yes," Hermione remarked, dryly. "I saw the quote. For that price I'm surprised he hasn't sent a diamond encrusted carriage to receive us. The fee is ridiculous…"

"Feel free to ignore her, Borgin," Draco chipped in. He pushed gently against the small of Hermione's back, in an effort to speed her up a little. The girl had long legs for her height, but she had a habit of being annoyingly unhurried.

_Dawdling_, Draco believed, was the word he was looking for.

"Aye, shall try," Borgin muttered, though not so loudly that Hermione heard.

It wasn't a long walk, but it was an interesting one. They passed by numerous little alleyways that gave new meaning to the term 'hole in the wall'. Hagrid would have had trouble squeezing into some of them.

There were stalls everywhere, despite it being after sun down. Or perhaps _because_ it was after sun down. Some were elaborate street-side constructions built precariously over the gutter. There were worn-looking tarps and everything under the sun displayed in jars, racks, cages, crates and from hooks. Hermione marvelled at the amount of business (illicit, no doubt), that went on, in and around the place.

Arthur Weasley's Ministry liked to think of itself as the ultimate regulator, but it was obvious that trade that had been going on for centuries was not about to be snuffed out overnight by one, well-meaning, overzealous Minister.

It served to show how much about the wizarding world Hermione was still rather naïve about. There was a lot she was not exposed to, which meant that she (and probably Harry), tended to take for granted that what they knew to be true from their own limited experience, applied across the board. She didn't like thinking of herself as uninformed. As much as she sometimes lamented her S.P.E.W days, she was a long way from throwing the towel in when it came to speaking her mind about things.

She glanced at Draco, whose apparent indifference to their surroundings spoke of familiarity. This was very much _his_ world, she realised, even if it also happened to be her world too. She really ought to see more of it than just Hogwarts, she thought.

Draco and Borgin walked ahead, not so much because they preferred to, but because Hermione kept lagging behind to look at the display in a shop window or at the wares of a street merchant.

A crone had set up shop beside a sweet seller. Her 'stall' consisted of an overturned barrel, covered by a grimy looking piece of linen. On this makeshift table cloth, there sat a variety of pretty trinkets on display.

Draco paused in his conversation to Borgin and glanced over his shoulder to check where Hermione was. He walked the few steps it took to reach her and snatched both her hands back before she could reach for one of the trinkets.

"Don't touch," he said.

"Why?"

"Poison. Didn't you ever read Snow White?"

The crone cackled. It was an honest to God, fairytale-witch cackle, which had Hermione staring at her slightly bug-eyed with wonder.

For the umpteenth time that day, she wished she had a camera.

She wanted to ask why anyone would want to purchase poisoned necklaces, but the she realised that that was a stupid question.

Draco fell into step beside Borgin once more, and they spoke about Borgin's trade, the state of the black-market economy, the recent theft of Dragon's Blood from Hungary which had seen the stuff quadruple in price. It was interesting enough chatter and so Hermione kept close to Draco, though even then he had to remind her once or twice not to lag behind.

There were just too many distractions for a curious mind to cope with.

**

Their expert's rented accommodation was a compact, two-storey townhouse of red brick and yellow-paned sash windows. There were a dozen identical houses on the street, each bearing a number on a neat, yellow door.

They were all learning slightly to the left, such that a person observing them was almost inclined to tilt their head slightly to the right. Hermione was doing just this when she caught Draco giving her a look.

They paused briefly outside 'Number 3', while Borgin chimed the bell. Draco removed his cap, rolled it and shoved it into a back pocket.

The door opened almost immediately, and a well-dressed man greeted them. He had one blue eye and one green eye.

"You!" Hermione exclaimed, instantly recognising him as the letch who had mistaken her for a prostitute earlier in the day. Her hand tightened on her bag, preparing to let swing.

He was grinning at her now. It was the type of grin the Weasley twins often sported after a successful caper.

"Sorry about earlier. I'm afraid I instructed Mr. Borgin here to request that the two of you arrive well before our meeting time. Only so that I could take a good look at you," the man informed.

Borgin muttered something. He did not look pleased to be the butt of a joke he knew nothing about.

"To get a look at us?" Draco repeated, looking even less pleased than Borgin.

"Yes. It's all part of the consultation process. I'll be happy to explain." He stood there for a moment, giving them time to digest the news. "My name is Arne, by the way, and it would seem that I am your Fida Mia expert for the evening," he stepped to the side of the door and made a dramatic gesture with his hand. "Do come in."

"Do you have last name, Arne?" Draco asked, as he entered the house. Hermione was thinking the same thing, though she thought Draco might have used a little more tact in asking. He was probably still annoyed at being fooled.

They were in a narrow, carpeted, little hallway with a set of steps leading up to the second floor. The place smelled pleasantly of recently baked confections. There was a small hallstand upon which rested a single bowler hat and a gnarled walking stick which looked about three times as old as Dumbledore and had about as much character to it.

"I do have a last name, but since I'm assuming yours isn't 'Merrybones' I thought I'd keep things informal," Arne said, with a smooth smile.

Touché, thought Hermione.

From the narrow corridor, Arne slid open a panel that opened to a small sitting area. There was a tea carafe set up, presumably in anticipation of the meeting, with several pasties and cakes.

"Will you be joining us?" Arne asked Borgin, only just noticing that he was still standing outside the front door.

"Rather not, all the same," Borgin replied, shuffling from foot to foot. "If that's all you'll be needing from me this evening, I'll be off?" The question was put to Draco.

Draco nodded, reached into a pockets and pulled out yet another small, drawstring pouch of what Hermione assumed was Borgin's payment. He tossed it to Borgin.

Honestly, Malfoy must have been walking around with a small fortune in his pants.

Hermione and Draco took a seat at opposite ends of the same green velvet sofa in the lounge room. The scene was almost like something you witnessed at a marriage counselling session, Hermione thought, with an internal snort.

Malfoy made a small, amused-sounding noise and Hermione was once again struck by the eerie notion that he could read her mind. "Tea?" Arne asked them. He gestured towards the carafe. Odd, but he didn't look like the sort to go to the trouble of putting out such a delicately polite spread.

Draco shook his head, and then gave Hermione the briefest of glances.

"No, thank you. We've just come from lunch."

"Very well then." Arne took a seat in an armchair.

He was really quite an attractive man. Hermione guessed his age to be at most, mid-twenties. He had sandy hair, cut and gelled into an old fashioned style and was wearing the same, fine, white shirt with tweed pants.

Odd choice, given the weather, but Hermione had already established that he was something of an eccentric.

"So, we have a problem with a binding marriage spell, I believe? Remarkable thing, Fida Mia," he looked oddly smug as he said this. "I take it you know its beginnings?"

"Yeah," snorted Draco. "A crazy old Danish polygamist."

Arne steepled his fingers, resting his elbows on his tweed covered knees. He gave the impression of someone telling a story to children. "Some people find it to be an eloquent enchantment. There aren't that many these days that bind to the fabric of your soul without causing damage. There aren't any legal ones, anyway."

Draco grimaced. Hermione thought it might have been in response to Arne's flowery description of the soul. She wasn't entirely wrong.

"Eloquent?" Draco scoffed. "It's a curse, not a charm. Ordinary marriage is bad enough without having this violating, psychic link with your partner. No wonder the spell is illegal here," he added, with enough disdain to choke a chicken.

"Not much of a romantic, I see?" Arne noted. He walked over to bureau and retrieved a quill and a pad of parchment.

Draco must have felt that the answer to this particular question was obvious enough that it did not require a response. He slapped a snooty expression on his face and stared straight ahead.

"Do you mind if I take down a few notes as we go?" asked Arne. He was watching them watch each other as he took his seat once more.

No one voiced any objections.

"How long have you two been seeing each other?"

"We're not," both Draco and Hermione said, at the same time. Hermione couldn't help feeling just a bit prickled by the vehemence of Draco's reply, however.

Arne looked up from his notes. "Sudden thing, then?"

Draco cleared his throat and sat a little straighter in his seat. "You could say that."

Arne wrote something else down on his paper. It looked like a good five or so sentences. Hermione wanted to see what it was.

"Why do you need to know that?" she had to ask.

"The same reason I like to see my clients before they know they're being watched. Gives me an idea of how far the spell's roots have gone. Your emotions affect the spell more than you realise. Any remedy I make has to be tailor made. Overkill won't work, in this instance, it might even be harmful. It's useful to gauge how much you have been influenced by Fida Mia, and how much is just…" he paused, shrugged, "you."

Draco looked like he was not eager to hear about Arne's assessment of their particular 'root' situation.

Arne's next question had Hermione blinking. "Will you tell me how it came about then?"

"Really?" Hermione said. "You need to know _that_?" She hadn't expected to be asked to explain her growing feelings for Malfoy to a stranger, much less with Malfoy sitting there.

"He means the spell, woman," Draco muttered.

"Oh," she exclaimed, colouring slightly. "Er, we got a bit drunk after a party two weeks ago, and ended up at a pub, getting tattooed. The result is apparently Fida Mia, or so we're told."

Arne blew on the tip of his quill. "Where?"

"Where?" she said. Oh dear. "Well, he's got a pair of black wings on his back. And I've got a silver dragon on my, ah, hip and upper thigh…area."

There. That wasn't so bad.

"I meant where did this happen? As in, the _place_."

Hermione went even redder. She gave Draco a heated look. "Are you going to just sit there or will you please assist?"

He assisted without looking at her. "The Snake and Stone. I think it's about three streets down from the Inn we're staying at now. About two blocks from the main thoroughfare leading from Diagon Alley."

"I know the one," Arne nodded. "Can you describe the procedure you encountered, if you can remember?"

Draco shrugged and looked to Hermione. They weren't going to get much help from _his_. booze addled recollection of events.

Hermione took in a deep breath and began. "We were seated at a booth in the ground floor and we had just ordered what was probably the fourth or fifth round of drinks. To be honest, I wasn't feeling very well by then. I said I wanted to go for a bit of a walk, and he, that is Mr. Merrybones, said he would accompany me because it wasn't safe."

"I said that?" Draco asked, casually.

"You did," Hermione replied. She waited for him to say something else, and only continued when he didn't. "We saw a sign advertising a tattoo parlour on the second floor and he decided that it would be interesting to see what it looked like. But this was before he decided to buy a bottle of Ogdens at the bar."

There was a small, short moment of silence as Hermione looked a bit apprehensive.

"Please continue," Arne prodded.

"Well," she began. "And then there was a bit of an um, altercation between Mr. Merrybones and another patron who had said something rude to him. I think that was the reason, anyway. I was too far away to be sure." Her tone said the real reason for the fight was something far more trivial.

Like the other man looking at Draco the wrong way, for example.

"After Dra- I mean, Mr. Merrybones broke the man's nose-"

"I did not!"

She stared at Draco. "I thought you said you couldn't remember?"

"I can't! But that doesn't mean I'll sit idly by and be accused of breaking someone's nose," he insisted.

As far as arguments went, his was weaker than dungeon gruel.

Hermione continued. "Anyway, after that, we proceeded upstairs. I think it was just before midnight." Hermione turned to Draco for confirmation, who in turn gave her a surly stare.

"Don't ask me. I don't remember any of this, remember?"

"So you keep saying," Hermione shot back, looking resigned, "we proceeded to the tattoo parlour. There was an old woman there…"

"Hang on, now _her_ I do recall!" Draco said, leaning forward. "That old bat had a set of teeth that would have scared off a troll at ten paces."

Hermione frowned at the memory. "Yes, it was rather bad wasn't it?"

"And she smelled of mothballs. Or maybe it was embalming fluid? I mean she was _old_." "Had to be a hundred and twenty at least," Hermione said.

"If a day," Draco nodded.

There was a muted thumping noise from upstairs, as if someone's foot had slammed a door.

Draco stared up at water-stained ceiling. "Is there someone else here?"

Arne didn't miss a beat. "My cat. She's very senior. Probably needs to go outside for a piddle."

"Poor thing," Hermione crooned. "She must be quite feeble."

"But well loved."

Draco was finding Arne's overly charming nature irritating. Almost as irritating as Hermione's response to it, especially when you considered that she had been about to smack the man in the face with her bag just moments earlier.

"Are we finished with the interview portion?" Draco asked, tersely.

Arne put his notes down. "Very nearly. What I'd like to do now is to take a look at your tattoos."

Was it his imagination or was the man looking quite warmly at Hermione as he said this?

Draco's eyes narrowed a fraction. "How about you have a look at mine and leave hers up to your imagination, which I'm sure is quite up to scratch." His voice was deceivingly mild.

"Draco!" Hermione exclaimed, completing forgetting to call him 'Merrybones'.

"Actually I'd very much like to look at yours in particular," Arne told Draco, unfazed by the intimidation.

Hermione sighed. "Is there some benefit in actually seeing them?"

Arne nodded. "It's not a necessity, though it does help sometimes to observe the extent of the spell's physical manifestation. I gather you've been experiencing periods of…" he searched for a word, "joined-ness?"

Draco wasn't finished being irritated by Arne, but he was sufficiently distracted by the question. "Yes," he breathed, "it's…"

Hermione took over for him. "Like living in his skin for brief moments, feeling what he's feeling. I think it happens when we feel particularly strongly about something. I get bursts of insight, or dashes of his personality. It's very startling."

Arne gave her an admiring nod. "Most affected people usually describe it to be a horrid tingling and not much else."

"Oh, there's the tingling too," Draco assured, dryly. "Much tingling."

"Good. Let's see it then." Arne said, already on his feet.

Looking only a little bothered, Draco stood and pulled off his t-shirt. His back was to Hermione as he did so. Her hand came to her mouth in a loud gasp when the dark wings were revealed.

She was having trouble believing that she was looking at the same tattoo Draco had so cavalierly displayed in the Prefects Bath. It was no longer a static thing. Rather, it moved, like dark ripples on the surface of a pond.

His fair, pale skin made for a fitting canvas. The feathers were as black as jet, but there was colours deep in the black too, swirling, gathering. Like an oil spill on dark water.

The wings looked restless, mimicking Malfoy's disposition, no doubt. At the moment, they look faintly _ruffled_.

The urge to reach out and stroke them, stroke his skin, was fairly overwhelming. Hermione gripped her hands tightly together until her knuckles were white.

Draco's turned around and their eyes met briefly. "Told you they've changed."

Hermione was reminded of their conversation in the forest, before the Dark Mark was sighted.

"_Where's your scholarly interest, Granger?"_

Where indeed? It had gone the way of her better judgement, surely.

Arne was busy making his own inspection of the tattoo. He looked excited, for lack of a better word. He was walking around Draco holding an instrument which looked a lot like callipers and saying things like 'beautiful', 'remarkable' and 'excellent workmanship'.

Hermione shivered and agreed with all these descriptions. 'Mr Merrybones'' tattoo made hers look like a love bite in comparison.

"How come he has a pair of wings?" she asked. "And a dragon for me?"

"Haven't you guessed yet?" Arne replied. "_Your_ mark is on your husband, and _his_, is on you. It is how you see each other."

Hermione was not even close to understanding what Arne had just told her, but she could spot an opportunity to annoy Malfoy a mile away. "If my tattoo is how I see him, then why isn't there a horrid little gnome clinging to my thigh?"

Malfoy sent her a look from over his shoulder. "Ha-ha."

"The symbol on your skin is something personal. It could even be something subconscious that you perceive about your partner. There are many types of dragons, as you know. Perhaps you might find it interesting to look up the qualities of the one you have on you. The oriental dragon is a symbol of wisdom and benevolence." Arne told Hermione.

"Thank you, Arne. Mystery solved," Draco announced. He turned to look at Hermione. "I have a dirty great pair of annoying harpy wings because that's how I see you. While you apparently consider me to be something of a kindly sage." Hermione gave Malfoy the finger when Arne wasn't looking.

"Roll your shoulders, if you would?"

Draco did as requested and the feathers moved in tandem, as if they were connected to the muscle beneath the skin. Arne took note of the fading but distinct bruising on Draco's left shoulder.

"Looks nasty. What happened here?"

"Quidditch injury."

"Ah, Quidditch," Arne nodded. "Very popular in Denmark also, though the Danish are not as mad about it as you English. Yes?"

Draco shrugged. It was true.

The wings seemed to shrug a second in delay. Both Hermione and Arne observed this. "Our Ministry is not so keen on large, public gatherings lately. We have had disturbances. I think you know the kind I mean." There was less cheer in Arne's voice now.

"Death Eaters?" Draco asked, softly.

Arne shook his head. "Not so much. I think these are merely people who favour He Who Must Not Be Named's ideas. I don't think your Voldemort has set his sights on our small community as yet. That is a good thing, I think."

"A very good thing. I can't believe his influence has spread that far." Hermione found herself angry that Arne's birthplace had also been similarly corrupted by Voldemort's taint.

"You'll find, young Miss, that there is a little bit of evil villain in all of us. It is the weaker of us, however, who may be led astray. The impetus perhaps needs to be planted first."

"That's what you think Voldemort is? An evil seed?" Hermione asked.

"He is an 'idea'. A bad one, at that. These are not good days, to be sure. Many in my community are expecting war, in one form or another, maybe in one year, maybe in ten years. So I make my money and spend it as I like, while I can," he said, smiling slightly. "Rest assured that there are more of us stronger than weak, more of us who are not so easily misled."

Draco was looking at him oddly, as if the man's insight was cause for suspicion rather than trust. "How do you know so much about Fida Mia? You're about a minute older than us."

Arne tapped against Draco's skin and looked pleased when the 'feathers' seemed to shrink away in response, almost like the leaves of a mimosa plant. "It's a sideline business. My partner and I own a small Charms Consultancy in Copenhagen. Family venture, you see. Fida Mia has Danish origins and I've simply taken the time to make a study of it."

"How is the spell normally cured?" Hermione inquired.

"For most cases, I fashion a charm that takes the place of the spell's host. The host being a human soul. The magic that was laid down during the needling process become attached to the charm and the spell comes off, along with the tattoo. It's not easy magic and it's not entirely Light magic either, given that blood was shed in the original process. Blood will have to be shed in the remedy."

"I see," Hermione said, looking a bit wide-eyed at this information.

"You may put your shirt back on," Arne told Draco. Hermione almost felt a pang of regret that the magnificent tattoo had to be covered up again.

"What's the verdict, then?" Draco asked, after he had pulled his shirt back into place.

Arne's response was mixed. "Can I have a word in private with you, for a moment?" He gave Hermione an apologetic look. "I hope you don't mind."

Hermione response was to mind, but she reluctantly nodded. "By all means. He's paying for this."


	33. Chapter 33

**Chapter Thirty-Three**

"My hearing must be going, because I thought you just said you couldn't help us."

They had gone into the kitchen and shut the door behind them. There was some sort of pie baking in the oven. Draco looked at the floor for a moment, seemingly deep in thought. Wherever his mind was, it wasn't a calm place.

Then he looked up at Arne, who had to resist the urge to reach for his wand. Borgin hadn't been exaggerating when he said the boy was a little high strung.

"You heard correctly," Arne responded. "There's no cure for what the two of you have. It's permanent."

"Everyone knows it to be permanent!" Draco said, impatiently. And then, after glancing at the closed door, he added more softly, "But the more well-informed of us know that there are two types of permanent. There's the type you can remedy with money and dark magic, and there's the type only death can fix."

"Suffice to say that this is the second type of permanent," Arne deadpanned.

"That's_ rubbish_," Draco spat.

"It's permanent because that lovely young lady waiting so anxiously in the sitting room fancies herself in love with you. The spell is sealed. There is no undoing it now."

Draco stepped back as if he'd been smacked in the face. He looked horrified, and then, he looked bloody furious.

"That girl does not love me."

"And you know this because you've asked her? Or because she's told you?" Arne asked, gently.

"How do you know it's love? How does anyone know?" Draco was pacing up and down the tiny kitchen like a caged animal.

Arne tried to calm the situation. "It doesn't matter if you don't know, or if you're not sure. The spell _knows_. I can remove the spell from a dalliance, a fling, an accepted mistake from both parties, but I do not have it within my power to break Fida Mia that two separate souls have bonded into place."

Draco made an exasperated noise, kicked a chair over and then gave Arne a mutinous look. At that moment, he looked every bit the surly teenager people accused him of being.

"Well fuck you then," he said, with great bitterness. "Why are we even here?"

Arne folded his arms and sat on the edge of his kitchen table. Nana was going to have a fit when she found out one of her beloved kitchen chairs had been assaulted.

"Because your contact arranged a meeting. Because you agreed to pay for a consultation. And because I am a businessman."

"You have to tell me how to fix this!" Draco leaned heavily against the sink and looked at Arne with such bleakness in his eyes that the older man was momentarily taken aback.

"Does it occur to you that your young lady might not consider this to be such a big problem?"

Draco ran a shaking hand through his hair. "Being married to me _is_ a problem."

"Why?"

"Why!" Draco scoffed. "Because we're only eighteen, for fuck's sake. Because she is who she is and I'm…well I'm very sure she's going to have some rather difficult things to deal with very soon, without having to factor a husband into her concerns. I do not want a wife! I want to be free of this! There has to be a way!" he hissed.

Arne wondered what these 'difficult things' were and if they were truly that dire that having someone there who cared for you was going to be more hindrance than help.

But then he remembered that the girl was friends with Harry Potter, and his questions were answered. Difficult things indeed.

"Given its permanence, there are but two ways to remove _true_, Fida Mia," Arne told a wary looking Draco. "You know this."

Draco nodded. He seemed defeated now. "Remove the affected flesh, or death."

"Yes, but also be aware that love is the catalyst, the enabler of charm. Without it, the spell will come off, cleanly. This is why most people who think they're affected by the spell aren't. There has to be _love_, you see."

"Then I need to remove her love," Draco surmised, with closed eyes.

Arne snorted. "I may only be 'a minute older' than you, as you said, but I can tell you now that it's far easier to fall in love than to _stop_ loving."

"She'll stop," Draco declared. It was almost a promise. "I'll _make_ her stop. She shouldn't have bloody started in the first place." He made to leave the kitchen, but Arne caught him at the door.

"Wait, before you go, I should perhaps point out that we seem to have conveniently skimmed over the fact that Fida Mia works only when _both_ parties are in love." Arne let the implication hang in the air for a moment.

Draco's hand was on the door handle.

"There is nothing in this world I need so badly that I cannot survive without it."

Arne watched him walk away, feeling quite inadequate. And for the first time since he started working with Nana Hendricks, he also felt _guilty_. ** After the couple had left, Nana Hendricks made her way down the stairs. Things had not gone well, from the look on her great grandson's face.

Arne was watching the departing couple from the window. "I think that young man may be the angriest person I have ever met. And being in the business that we're in, I've seen my fair share of angry young men," he told his great-grandmother.

Nana Hendricks was at her knitting. The pie had been taken out of the oven and was cooling on the kitchen table. She liked to knit when she was feeling cranky, and arguably, after the news that her dear great-grandson had not wanted to charge their clients for the consultation, she was cranky.

That was two months work, down the drain. All that hanging about in dingy pubs, scouting for suitable targets, moving their tattoo parlour from village to town and back again. All for nothing. She didn't have the energy these days to work too many jobs in a given year. One or two at the most. They were running low on funds too.

Not that she could stay riled for long with the boy. He was like his father, too soft-hearted by far, which happened to be the reason why she had retired her grandson and taken on his boy as her new partner.

"Rest assured it's not the spell that has him angry," Nana said.

"I like him," Arne admitted. "If only because he's the complete opposite of me."

"I know," she gave him a fond smile. Her knitting needles clicked amicably, soothing her. "You were such a sweet, placid child. Do you want any orange in your sweater, dear? I just remembered you detest orange."

"Nana, I'm worried about what he'll do." Arne could not shake the fact that Draco was Death Eater progeny. Hopefully, this particular acorn had fallen very far indeed from the tree.

"They'll be fine," she told him. "Why, I haven't known a couple to not be fine under true Fida Mia."

Arne snorted. "What about you and great-grandad?"

The needles paused. "Yes? What about us?"

"Well, there's the time you tried to poison him and then there was the attempted drowning. Father says he burned down your house once."

"Oh that." She made a 'pish' noise. "That was just us courting, dear. If it hadn't worked out in the end, you wouldn't be here, would you? Now, will you have any orange or not?"

Arne wasn't entirely satisfied. He had seen the fear and rage in the young man's eyes and he wondered if the girl had enough fortitude in her to calm him. When Fida Mia struck true, it did so with blinding force.

"No, no orange, thank you."

They were freakishly bright, the both of them. He could tell. They also had too much common sense. Sometimes it was better to throw common sense to the wind. What was instinct good for if everyone listened to their head all of the time?

**

Draco ignored the questions she threw at him.

"What's the matter? What did he say?"

She got nothing out of him, not a hint. Though perhaps the anger she was seeing ought to have been the biggest clue of all.

They pushed past the doors of the Cobblestone and then continued upstairs.

"Will you stop!" she called out.

He didn't stop. He almost kicked open the door in his haste. When they were inside their room, he slammed the door shut and picked up his bag.

"We're leaving," he said. "_Now_."

Hermione couldn't believe he was shouting at her. Also, she didn't think he noticed.

"My God, it can't be that bad?" She walked up to him. It was her future on the line too and she was sick to death of being continually dismissed by him. "Will you stop and tell me what's happened? Where is our cure? You didn't pay him, did you? I didn't see you give him anything when-"

He whirled on her. Startled, she retreated until the back of her knees were against the bed. She got a good look at his face then. This was no teenager throwing a tantrum. This was full blown Malfoy-rage. For a moment she thought he might actually strike her.

"Shut up," he said, holding up a finger. "For once just _shut up_!"

Hermione sidestepped him. Shaking, confused, but still determined to garner his complete attention, she took out her wand and aimed an _Incendio_ at the bed.

The corner of the bedspread caught on fire.

Draco stared at it for a moment before seeming to snap out of his daze. He tossed the bedspread to the floor and stomped out the fire.

And then he stared at her as if she'd gone mad. "You crazy bitch…"

She raised her wand and aimed at him this time. He lunged at her, pulling her roughly by her forearms.

"What do you think you are to me?"

"What?" she squeaked, because she was alarmed and because the question was as stupid as it was unexpected. She would answer him, however, if he would just calm down. "Don't put your hands on me Malfoy"

He shook her until her teeth rattled. "You are nothing, do you understand? You are nothing to me. You are a bothersome, tiring, boring distraction at best!"

And then he said foul things. Some _very_ foul things. None of it was about the circumstances of her birth, though, which really should have been an indicator about his state of mind at the time. He did not call her a Mudblood, but he called her other, vile things and it was not until he started mentioning Ron and Harry in his sordid insults, did she _snap_. The time came when it was no longer prudent, feasible, possible or healthy to listen to such slander without reacting. It was almost heartening to know that she had a line too, and that he had crossed it.

It was damned third year all over again.

She wrenched her right arm free, knowing she'd have bruises for a bracelet the next day, and slapped him across the face with all the strength she possessed. The resulting 'smack' sound was gratifyingly loud in the tiny room. Her palm stung, but it was worth it.

"How dare you!" she hissed.

His head whipped to the side, but he maintained perfect balance. She shuddered to think of the kind of force Lucius had put into his swing to knock Draco clean off his feet.

Draco pushed his hair off his cheek and tucked it behind his ear. The tip of his tongue darted out to catch the thin line of blood that had welted up across his top lip. His eyes took on a dark, gunmetal look as he sucked at the injury.

"You really shouldn't have done that," he whispered.

_Ok, time to run now!_, the tiny, warning voice screamed in her head. She didn't listen to it. The voice didn't always know everything. The voice was her brain speaking, not her heart.

He pulled her up against his chest. It didn't hurt this time because he was being gentle..

"I _dare_. That's all you need to bloody know," he retorted. "You recall what I said at the motel, about what I would do if you hit me again?" he asked her, his thumb stroking down the bridge of her nose. His voice was gruff.

"You're going to break my hand, are you?" she challenged.

He took her hand, the right one, the one that had slapped him twice since they had know each other, and kissed her palm. His chin was scratchy. He needed a shave, she thought.

"Not your hand, Hermione," he clarified, "I'm going to break _you_ if you don't stay away from me."

She barely had time to register what he said when her other hand was suddenly captive as well. Frowning, she tugged, but his grip was tight, binding. He brought his foot around behind her, and in one neat sweep, toppled her backwards and onto the bed.

_Should we be panicking yet?_ the brain-voice asked.

No. Not yet. Because he seemed to be giving her an option to turn tail and run. Draco continued to stare down at her, an undefinable expression on his face.

She stayed put.

He crawled over her on the bed, his breath hot and moist, inching upwards along her throat. She felt short of breath, dizzy. Goosebumps broke out everywhere he touched. The material of his pants was a rough caress against her bare legs. Or perhaps that was just all her nerve endings suddenly screaming their existence. He ground the rigid delta of his jeans against her soft, lower belly while he nibbled at her neck and sucked at a particularly tender spot under her ear.

"If I could bottle how good you smell to me right now, I'd make a fortune." His voice sounded drugged and distant. She didn't think he was aware of it.

Dimly, she realised her hands were free. She settled them on his shoulders and gave an experimental shove. He laughed (or growled, she couldn't tell) into her neck and then bit her. She turned her face, wanting to kiss him, wanting to taste him and be close to him in a way she knew he did not like to encourage.

But he was clever and pulled away. Either his control was extraordinary or he was just plain evil in his seduction.

Or possible he was just scared.

Draco supported himself on his elbows as stared down at her almost leisurely. His erection, which she could feel very clearly through his clothes, was a firebrand against her belly. The metal button-studs of his pants were cool in contrast.

"I don't think I've impressed my true nature upon you yet," said Draco. He kissed the corner of her mouth and Hermione knew that if she licked that spot, she would taste his blood on her.

That was a bit _too_ real for her liking and she was scared. Hermione scrambled back against the headboard, but he caught her ankles and dragged her back down to him. Miserably, she realised her skirt was now bunched around her waist. He shoes had come off and her hands were once again prisoner.

She had never considered herself a weak person, and had certainly done her share of heavy lifting at home and at Hogwarts, but whatever strength she thought she had, it was nothing compared to Malfoy's.

The tension that pulsed and radiated between them was more than just their emotions, it was also the age old tension between the sexes.

"What are you doing?" she asked, more calmly now. It was an inane question. Like asking the postman what his job was.

"Guess," he whispered against her lips. He was looking at her as if he meant to memorise every inch of her face.

She opened her mouth to say something smart, and he picked that moment to attack. He wouldn't let her kiss him on her own terms, she realised. He didn't want her compliance.

He kissed her and kissed her. His mouth slanted over hers. It was a kiss worthy of the pent up frustration they had been enduring for so long. He ate at her lips, swept his tongue over and around hers, explored every inch of her he could reach, and if he couldn't get deeper enough, he tilted her head or forced her chin downwards and started all over again. She gasped and he caught her breath only to return it to her, hotter.

It seemed impossible that he could hold both her wrists so effectively in the one hand, but he managed this. He used the weight of his body to pin her and his free hand to pull her singlet up and over her head.

He couldn't remove her top altogether because that would mean releasing her hands, so he left it there, bunched up somewhere over her head, around her elbows.

He had more trouble with her bra, seeing as the clasp was at the back, so he merely pushed it up out of the way as well.

And then, he did nothing.

He pulled away from her mouth, his lips ruddy and wet, and just looked at her in a way which made her want to run for the hills and join a nunnery. His gaze was so quiet and heavy that she started to squirm from the intensity of it. Her breasts seemed to be enjoying the attention, however. Her nipples had become tiny pebbles.

He took pity on her. "If you've been reading my thoughts this week, you'll know I've wanted to do this for a very long time."

She watched, in a trance, as he used his tongue to trace a wet circle around one nipple before drawing it into his mouth to suckle. He took his time doing this, rubbing his face between her breasts, breathing her in, giving the other breast the same, slow attention, cupping and gently squeezing.

Hermione's toes curled. She tossed her head from side to side and begged him to release her hands. She wanted to wrap them around him, but she wasn't that far gone that she would tell him that.

"You sit there, at breakfast. Fresh and showered and smelling so very nice," he leaned up and kissed her each temple. "The things I think about doing to you." His voice was low, so low it seemed to reverberate in her spine.

"I think about walking over, sitting you in my lap, unbuttoning your blouse and playing with these while you cut up my breakfast and feed it to me. What do you think about that?" he asked rhetorically, bending his head to delicately bite at the underside of one breast.

"I've been thinking that since last year, and do you know I get so hard that I'm sometimes late for Transfiguration because I'm sitting at breakfast like an idiot, after almost everyone has gone, pretending to drink pumpkin juice until I settle down?"

She moaned, ducked her head so that he couldn't see her face.

"Granger," he prodded, catching her lips and luring her to look at him with a brief kiss. Her eyes were full of tears when she opened them. "Do you know how I can tell when you're ready for me?" he asked, his tone was both gentle and mocking. It was a deadly combination.

She shook her head and was rewarded with his scorching smile.

"I can tell because you get all hot and wet and you make these wonderful little noises. I can't remember all that much from our first time together, but I'd be three quarters dead if I didn't remember how you _feel_."

His hand moved down over her torso.

"Don't," she frowned at him. "Draco. We can't do it like this."

She would not consummate their love in anger and fear. That path led to anguish and loss, she was sure of it.

He responded by digging his fingers into her tattooed thigh until she cried out. "Not 'Draco', you little cock tease. To you, I am _Malfoy_, always Malfoy. I'm my father's son, after all. You need to know what sort of man I am."

"I know who you are!" Hermione cried out.

He rubbed his palm provocatively against her, catching her underwear. "Not yet, but you will. I'm going to show you, and then we'll have this little problem fixed, won't we?"

"You are not your father," she whispered.

His hand had reached its goal. Her underwear was no obstacle for his fingers. He pushed the material to the side. His eyes had gone nearly black, they were so dark. There was a vein steadily throbbing at his temple.

"I'm young, give me time..."

Draco, meanwhile, had no idea what the hell he was doing. He thought he had a clue, but that was about ten minutes, three kisses and one white, cotton brassiere ago.

The _plan_ had been to scare her so badly she would never be able to look at him the same way again, much less feel anything for him. He should have known better. His best laid plans tended to melt into a puddle of goo whenever Hermione Granger was involved.

Maybe it was time to live up to familial expectations after all.

He touched her and couldn't contain a satisfied groaned when his index finger slid up inside her with liquid ease. She was so very ready.

His thumb found the tiny, sensitive spot that made all the difference, and he pressed and circled it. She tightened her legs, imprisoning his hand and started making those noises he liked so much.

She also felt small, smaller than he remembered, which sent caution signals rushing into his head to go slowly.

He was less artful fumbling around with his fly. He lifted his hips off the bed for a moment so that he could snag his pants and drag them down a little. His boxers went the way of his pants and he was free.

Hermione felt him reach between them, and if she looked down, she knew she would now see the heated, naked length of his cock resting against her. He drew her legs around his hips.

"Close your eyes," he ordered, his voice was strained.

"No."

"Close your eyes. Do it...or I'm going to turn you over. You don't want me to turn you over, Hermione."

"I will not!" she hissed back at him. She hadn't realised she was crying until she tasted her own tears.

He looked furious with her. "Why?"

"Because I'm probably never going to see you again after this, am I?" she sobbed. She thought he might really do her violence at that moment, and she braced herself for it, thinking herself a fool and knowing she could not forgive him if he did. Neither would he forgive himself.

But then Draco dropped his head to her breast and groaned. Her hands were free.

"Break, damn you."

"Only if you knit me up again," she whispered against his hair. She wanted to touch him but he was still holding her hands.

He must have sensed her sudden, strange calmness and this infuriated him. He shook her. "I'm doing this for you, you stupid bitch!"

"Do you even understand what's going on here?" she yelled at him. "I give myself to you Draco, and God strike me dead if I've read you wrong and you _don't_ want me just as much." Her voice went a little small at this. "I know you feel something, so why won't you trust _yourself_ for once?"

He was looking at her with an expression that conveyed his horror at her clear understanding of him. He knew how to answer her question, however.

_Never love anything more than it loves you._ But why?

Because everything good goes away eventually.

Because unrequited love is a festering, poisonous wound. And then he would be left with nothing. A big, yawning chasm. Motherless, friendless. Loveless. Like Malfoy Manor. Dead and empty and with a father that considered him to be both burden and failure.

It was less painful to not know love than to have it ruin you by degrees.

_She can't really love me... _

_Ask her, you idiot! "I..." he said. But no more words came. He had none. In wanting to break her and save her from their unwanted marriage, he had realised that there was something broken in him. Something that perhaps could never be fixed. _

How could he demand the same thing of her? Granger, who was healthy and whole and who had the startling ability to love.

Hermione was experiencing her own little epiphany. It occurred to her that there was no real cure. Not for what they had. That had been what Arne had wanted to talk to Draco about. That was why they had been allowed to leave the place without handing over so much as a Knut.

There really was no cure.

Draco sensed her small surprise, the reflexive stiffening of her body and felt defeat the likes of which he had never encountered. She had given him an opening and he had failed her, as he would have predicted. All was lost because Hermione would never forgive him for what he had done to her.

Awkwardly, he placed a dry kiss on her forehead and made to leave.

Hermione locked her legs around him. And then she summoned what was left of her courage and tilted her chin upwards and caught his mouth just before he pulled away.

His response was immediate. His fingers buried in her hair. He groaned and kissed her with a ferocity that was an impossible combination of desperate and gentle. His soul was laid bare in that one, drugging kiss and Hermione was absolutely _reeling_ from the force of it.

There was nothing left to do but hold him. He had to be terrified. She felt weak, insignificant in the wake of whatever had been set free within him.

The tightly constrained, padlocked, barb-wired, fortress that had surrounded his heart had crumbled away and she was basking in the heat of what it was like to _have_ Draco, to truly have him.

She heard the sounds she, they made, small gasps for air, whimpers, moans as if she were an outside observer.

He pulled away to breathe and she raised her head to follow, not wanting to lose the intense connection that was welding their bodies together.

He looked like he was in acute, physical pain as he closed his eyes and held himself suspended over her, the muscles of his shoulders, back and arms tensed, keeping his weight off of her.

She knew that if she didn't say something soon, the gates of the fortress would snap shut and the darkness he suffered from would steal him away again.

"Stay with me," she told him, not asking, telling. She left the appeal for her eyes to convey.

"How?" he gasped out, still staring down at her as if she were something forbidden. His voice sounded choked.

"Like this," she said, reaching up to cup his face. She placed small, moist kisses over his lips, the corner of his mouth where he bled, the bridge of his nose, his cheekbones. "Like this," she repeated, wrapped herself around him and willed him to be calm, to be at ease.

Shutters lifted over his eyes. The parts she had discovered and teased out over the past two weeks gradually lay bare, uncovered and vulnerable.

"Tell me," he asked, his eyes searching her face. He caught her hands so she would not distract him with her touches. "_Please_."

Remus Lupin hadn't called her the cleverest witch of her age for nothing. Hermione recognised the solution with startling clarity. He was afraid to give that much of himself without knowing that she returned the feeling with equal ferocity.

"I'm in love with you. Draco, God help me, I tried my hardest not to be." It was ridiculous how easy it was to say it. A few days ago, a person would have had to strap her to a rack before she would have admitted it.

He drew back a little and for a moment she thought she had lost the tug of war after all. And then with a shaky exhalation, he buried his face into the crook of her shoulder and there he remained for a minute. Doing nothing more than breathing and holding her.

Relieved, jubilant, terrified, she wrapped her arms around him and found herself wishing that she either had longer arms or that he was a smaller person.

And then he lay down beside her, holding her to him so that they were facing each other, exactly as he had done when he had awakened her on the morning after the Graduation Party. This time, she was wide awake.

He pulled her leg over his waist and reached between them to take hold of his cock. His other hand rested on her hip, cradling her dragon tattoo.

"If we do this, you're mine," he told her, his ferocity was mesmerising. "You belong to me, do you understand?"

He was giving her one last avenue of escape.

Hermione rolled her eyes at him. He really was such a drama queen. Perhaps a direct approach was best, when it came to her thick-skulled husband.

"Malfoy, my God, just fuck me already."

"You're going to be the death of me," he told her, almost wincing the words out. She wanted to tell him not to say such things, but when she opened her mouth, all that came out was a sharp gasp because he thrust into her, all of him, all at once.

He rolled onto his back, taking her with him. She was straddling him. The entire hard, hot length of him was inside her. He said something. It wasn't English, she thought it was French. It sounded like a curse word and it was the sexiest thing she had ever heard uttered.

Hermione leaned forward, bracing her palms against his chest. He had his eyes closed and she wished he would open them. She got nervous when she couldn't see his eyes. His hands were fastened to her hips and he was making her heart skip beats with the way he was sliding her off and back, onto his cock.

Here it was again, that perfect, brilliant _fit_. Drunk or sober, there was no denying how good they were together.

Draco's brain was about to explode. He was forced to close his eyes because the sight of her riding him, was too much. Her eyes broadcasted the words she had given him earlier, and if that wasn't already enough to make him finish in a scant second, the feel of him wearing her, would.

Too late. He was going to finish. Merlin, she had reduced him to a horny, deranged, obsessed, premature ejaculator.

"I'm sorry," he rasped. He thrust up into her hard, one last time and that was all he could manage.

Hermione lay on his chest. He was so still she thought she'd killed him. She raised herself up, pushed her hair out of her eyes with her forearm and peered at him.

"Malfoy. Please don't forget to breathe."

He opened his eyes, halfway. They were a cool, placid grey, showing nothing more untoward than run of the mill sleepiness. Hermione sighed with relief.

"I won't."


	34. Chapter 34

**Chapter Thirty-Four**

Arne was seated at the kitchen table, eating cold pumpkin pie while reading the Daily Prophet.

He liked to start at the back of the paper, with Quidditch news, followed by the financial pages and then the social pages. Reading from the front was depressing. There seemed to be a dire shortage of good news lately, but then he supposed good news was not always the sort of news people wanted to read.

Eventually, he frowned over a report at the front of the paper. It was regarding an investigation into the suspicious death of one 'Narcissa Black Malfoy'. Wife to convicted, former Death Eater, Lucius Malfoy.

The names she carried were as old as they were notorious. There was quite a bit of background information about the Blacks and the Malfoys mentioned in the article. According to the report, the woman was thought to have committed suicide, and the death had been kept a secret from the public, until now. It was _not_ suicide, the article suggested, which was why a full-blown investigation was underway.

The article also mentioned that Narcissa was survived by her only son, Draco.

_Draco._

Arne's eyes widened a little at the realisation of who exactly had been sitting in his lounge room earlier. Fate seemed to have taken a liking to the young man and singled him out for an interesting year.

The bell at the front door sounded. Arne was not expecting any visitors or clients and so he assumed that it was Nana, back from her mercy, pie-delivering mission to an elderly neighbour they had befriended. Arne thought the man fancied his great-grandmother, but she insisted it was all platonic.

He put his empty plate and fork in the sink, tapped his hand over his jacket pocket out of habit, to check that his wand was there, and went to answer the door.

It was not his great-grandmother standing on the front doorstep, but the young man from earlier, Draco.

He was wearing the black cap Arne had seen on him during their first encounter outside the Cobblestone Inn.

"You're back," said Arne, a little discombobulated.

The young man nodded. His silver eyes were bright. "I need information. It's urgent."

Arne stared at him for a moment. "I don't usually see anyone this late, but I suppose I could make an exception. I will have to insist on charging a fee this time, however."

There, that would appease Nana. Business as usual.

"I always pay my way," was Draco's response. There was a smile on his face now.

Arne hesitated for a moment, not quite knowing why. Perhaps he had become a little too curious about the young couple's affairs. He had always managed to maintain a professional distance, as per Nana's edict.

Shrugging aside the odd feeling, he moved to let Draco enter. It wasn't until the door had shut, did Arne realise he had made a grievous error.

Whomever he had let into the house was _not_ under the effects of Fida Mia. It was his blood-talent to be able to sense the existence or absence of the intricate spell. Where the young couple earlier had been swimming in a thick soup of complex magic, flavoured liberally with love and lust, this stranger was _clean_.

There was nothing on him. That was because it wasn't really Draco.

The realisation came too late. The boy had already cast his spell. Arne fell to the ground, paralysed. He watched as the young man unhurriedly walked to the front door and opened it. Two other men entered. One of them was small, balding and skittish. He gave Arne a brief glance that reeked of worry.

His companion was a marked contrast; tall and austere. Both were clad in enveloping black.

Arne's assailant was squatting on the floor next to him.

"Like I said, I need some information."

The information they requested was about the young couple that had been there Arne earlier. Specifically, they asked about the boy, Draco. It didn't seem like very pertinent information and from the look on the stranger's face, he seemed to know already.

"Thank you," said the boy, if it was indeed a boy. He was in charge though, that much was clear. The other two fell into step behind him.

For a moment, Arne thought they would leave. He held his breath.

"Travers, please take a souvenir from Mr. Hendricks, to show off to the newlyweds."

The tall man stepped forward. He didn't look eager, but he did not look like the kind of man who would be swayed by pleading either.

"What will you have?" he asked the boy. His voice was like the rest of him, grave.

The boy seemed to ponder this. He glanced around the cramped hallway, not finding anything of interest. It was then that he noticed Arne's unusual eyes. He smiled again.

"Something they'd remember."

Whatever they would do to him, Arne hoped they would do it quickly before Nana chanced to come home. The old lady was safe as long as she was away.

People often said that a person's life flashes before them when they die. That was nonsense. Unless a person was fortunate to die relatively calmly and slowly and with all their mental faculties in good working order, there simply wasn't the time to review a life in summary.

Given that wizards could expect to live well past a century, that also meant quite a lengthy summary and given such longevity, a good chance of senility.

Arne had lived a paltry twenty-four years, and so there was not a hell of a lot of life to review in the first place.

As Travers advanced on him, apart from distinct terror, Arne also felt _regret_.

It was a crying shame for any Hendricks to die without experiencing true Fida Mia.

When Nana Hendricks came home that evening, she found the door to the house open, her great-grandson dead, in the hallway, with a bag of money beside him, and the Dark Mark, blazing over the rooftops of the townhouses.

**

The bed was too bloody small.

Draco woke up on top of her, grumbled that the bloody bed was too bloody small and then would have gone back to sleep again, only he realised that he was probably crushing her.

He was also lying on her hair.

He tried to be all quick and nimble, Seeker-style, and flip himself over to the side. This was when he realised that he was too fatigued and that he couldn't have executed a double barrel role into a figured eight if his life depended on it, which it sometimes did.

Merlin, but the girl slept like the dead. Her dark lashes were perfectly still, resting on her cheeks, her breathing was deep and even. She had a natural pout when she slept and a rosy flush to her skin. Draco felt a strange sort of calmness as he looked at her. It started somewhere in his stomach, expanded into his chest, and then seemed to seep into the rest of his body via his blood.

The feeling warmed him. He realised that he felt _safe_, which was ludicrous. He was not safe. He hadn't been safe from the moment he was born.

Morosely, Draco realised he could share the same, unwelcome claim with Potter.

He was now responsible not just for seeing to his own continuing survival, but also that of a girl. A frail Muggleborn girl. Brilliant, yes, but who didn't have the sense to stay out of harm's way, who wasn't any good at broomstick flying, who wasn't even tall enough to reach his shoulders.

She was special, that was true, but Hermione Granger had no power and influence that he could use to his own advantage. She could not protect him from the groping, opportunistic hands of the Ministry or the cold, calculating interest of Voldemort and his supporters. Hermione was even more of a target now. And it was his fault. The thought was like an icy wind blasting away the aforementioned, warmth. He was a self-serving creature by nature. Draco was not ashamed of this and would have been the first to admit it.

It was thus very hard to wrap his brain around the fact that there was now someone _else_ that he would have to watch over. Someone else's interests other than his own.

One may have been a very lonely number, but at least it was an _easy_ to put into equations.

Their interests were now one and the same. The silly girl had ensured that when she had told him she loved him.

He could walk away. That would have been the selfless, noble, wisest thing to do. For all parties concerned.

It was so very..._Potter_, wasn't it?

Bad luck for her then, that he was not such a person.

All that was left to do, then, was to make his environment as Granger-friendly as possible. That meant keeping the Ministry off his back and staying under Voldemort's radar. Perhaps if they tried enough, the world would leave them the hell alone, long enough for him to work out what was happening to him.

It was wishful thinking. He knew that. It was not going to be easy.

Tired, Draco closed his eyes, wishing he was as sound asleep as she appeared to be. "I banish you, depressing thoughts," he whispered.

She hoped she was happy. He was talking to himself now. Granger had officially made him crazy.

His voice stirred her. She wriggled beneath him and started doing soft, wet, sleepy things to his shoulder. She even managed to locate his ear. "Hermione," he said, his voice sounding weak and puny.

Other parts of him were not so weak and puny, however.

He flopped down beside her, without a lot of grace, but he made up for this with quite a lot of intent. With a bit of clever manoeuvring, he was where he needed to be, inside her. She wasn't breathing so deeply any more.

He knew her tattoo was flickering. Like fairy lights. It had started doing that a while ago and was steadily picking up in intensity, but he decided she'd be alarmed to hear about it. He remembered that she seemed to enjoy overreacting.

So whispered the kind of soft, reassuring words he thought she might have liked to hear, he told her to keep her eyes closed. All the better to look at her without being watched in return.

The one, grimy lantern in the room cast a sleepy golden glow that looked very enticing over her skin. It was sticky-hot, given that the only window could not be opened. A fine sheen of perspiration covered the both of them. It made her look dewy.

He pressed his lips against her shoulder and tasted some of the salt from her skin. The sheet was dragged downwards. Her breasts were addictive, he decided. He knew there was a good reason why he had harboured those lustful thoughts during breakfast.

Draco held on to them as he rocked against her.

This time, he did not disgrace himself.

**

Hermione raised her head and squinted around the room. It was dark. The lantern was out. Somewhere down the corridor, a woman was laughing. She wanted to get out of bed to find out what time it was, but Draco slung a leg over her and told her they needed to go back to sleep.

He sounded like he'd swallowed a cup of gravel.

His command was at odds with his behaviour, though. He was, at the moment, wholly occupied with fondling her bottom.

It was so hot in the room. He had covered them with a sheet, but even that seemed too much to bear.

"What's that smell?" she asked, wrinkling her nose. She fit perfectly against and into him, but this was hardly news.

"The quilt," he said, against the back of her neck. "You set it on fire remember?"

"Oh," she replied. They didn't need it anyway. It was too warm. She wiggled her backside into a more comfortable nook. "I suppose I'll have to pay for it," she said, yawning.

Draco gave her a light smack. "I gave the Innkeeper enough for a hundred new blankets."

Yes, yes, he was rich. She had got that memo in first year. Hermione turned over so that she could grin at him.

His eyes were closed. She wasn't sleepy.

"Draco."

He had no manners. "What?"

"Do you have a middle name?"

He didn't open his eyes, but she could see his mild frown of incredulity. "You ask this _now_?"

"Mine's 'Jane'," she informed. There was a silly sort of happiness bubbling inside her. She would not be silenced.

"Doesn't suit you," was his curt response.

"I've seen the School Register, you know. It looked like you have half the alphabet for your middle initials."

For a moment, he was content to pretend that he had gone back to sleep, but then he said, "What were you doing looking me up in the Register?"

She shrugged. "I have a fondness for records."

He snorted. "That, I can believe."

Silence.

"So, are you going to tell me or not?"

He cracked open en eye. "Let me sleep if I tell you?"

She said she would. He repeated his whole name then, in a rush. To show her he was tired, she supposed.

Hermione pondered all five names in between 'Draco' and 'Malfoy', for a minute or so. "What about 'Merrybones'? Maybe you should add-"

He stuck his tongue in her mouth to shut her up.

**

"Granger?"

"Hmm?"

"I feel duty bound to inform you that you have the world's most perfect arse."

Silence.

And then: "What do you mean _duty bound_?"

"I consider myself an expert in such matters."

"Why? How many other arses-"

"Shh," he said, regretting he had said anything at all, "go to sleep."

**

"So when's your birthday?"

She propped her chin on his chest and answered him. "Nineteenth of September. Which makes me nine months older than you." God knows why she sounded smug about it, she just _was_

Hermione didn't think he realised how tender his smile was. "Not where it counts."

"And where does it count?" she asked.

His response was to leer at her as he stroked her cheek.

"I suppose you mean experience in the area of say, arse appreciation, for example?" she asked, dryly.

"You don't need to sound so grumpy about it."

She yawned and rested her head on his chest. "I'm never grumpy."

He shook her awake. It couldn't have been more than a few minutes later, but she had apparently dozed off. His chest made for a nice pillow and the sound of his beating heart was ridiculously soothing.

Hermione was not soothed, however, to see the frown on his face when she pried her eyes open.

"Granger, who was your first?" he asked this with some urgency.

"Huh?" she queried. Ginny often told her that it took a good ten minutes to put her brain on in the mornings.

Draco looked faintly troubled. "I didn't think Potter liked you that way. So he's off the list. I guessed Weasley, because the two of you had that _thing_ last year."

He said 'thing' like it was venereal disease.

Suddenly, he looked quite appalled. "Or was it Krum? Tell me it wasn't Krum."

She was becoming extremely uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. "I'd rather we didn't discuss that topic right this minute. I'm awfully tired." She yawned for effect.

The steel went back into his eyes. It had been on hiatus since they had connected with the bed. He sat up, dislodging her from his chest rather rudely, and then he had the audacity to glare at her.

"I asked a question."

She sat up as well. "Yes, I heard you."

"You're going to answer me."

"Fine, since you asked so very nicely. My first was you."

He stared at her as if she'd just told him that he was a long lost Weasley brother.

"No."

Hermione was getting cross with him. What the hell did he mean by _no_?

Making a sound of disgust, she tried to take the sheet with her when she got out of bed, but he was lying on it and wasn't taking the hint from her violent tugging.

whatever. She located her singlet and underwear beside the bed and hurriedly put them on.

He was still pretending to be daft. "You mean to tell me, the night of the party…_that_ was your first time?"

"Yes, well first six or seven times, if you want to get technical," she answered, tartly.

He was making her feel like her inexperience was something to be embarrassed about.

Where was her skirt and bra? She wanted to look under the bed, but she had a feeling he'd snatch her if he got the chance.

"Take your clothes off and come back here," he ordered, predictably. And then, to her mild disbelief, he added. "I'm sorry if my reaction upset you, I'm just surprised is all."

Hermione was still mad. He had stomped obnoxiously over what was a delicate subject. She would not humour him. "Sod off, Malfoy."

He raised an eyebrow at that, and then, with a dramatic sigh, got out of the bed.

Her heart rated spiked.

Good lord, he was menacing when he wanted to be. She squeaked, more from anticipation than anything else. There was a tiny bit of fear, which seemed to add to her anticipation in a very pleasing manner. She could feel his arousal as well, a darker sub-layer under her own.

He made her stand still, like a store mannequin, while he stripped her down to nothing once more, and then gently nudged her back to bed.

The sight of his erection, pointing to the ceiling, made her mouth dry. She was still cross with him, though.

"Why are you being difficult about this? Isn't it customary for the man to be _somewhat_ glad that his partner isn't the village broomstick?"

He broke into a grin at that last comment. "You suck cock like you've done it plenty of times before. I made an assumption, an incorrect assumption, it would seem," he admitted.

Frankly, it was a relief to know that he didn't need to be obsessed about her past lovers. Now, however, he found that he wanted to know if she'd practiced on Weasley. Or anyone else, for that matter. But he was fond of his head and did not want to lose it because he was tactless enough to ask at that moment.

"You really do have a way with words, don't you?" she informed him, blushing furiously.

He seemed amused that she was determined to stare at her feet as she addressed him.

"I suck _your_ cock like I've been doing it for years," she corrected, sheepishly. Her face felt hot enough to cook eggs on.

They were back at the bed now but were not yet in it. He was stroking her arms and back. "Tell me something," he asked, casually, like he was asking for the time. He turned her away from him, used his foot to spread her legs apart, and then gently bent her over the bed. She bit her lip as he slowly pressed into her.

"Was I gentle?" he asked, when he was buried to the hilt and they were body against body with no space in between.

It took her a moment to find her voice. "No, you weren't. But if I wanted gentle, I would have been with _you_ that night."

"Ah," Draco replied, through gritted teeth. His hands gripped her hips. "Great answer."

**

He was walking around the room, stark naked, shoving his Nutrisoil cap and the remainder of his money, into his bag. After he had re-lit the lantern, he picked up the burnt quilt with two fingers, wrinkled his nose a little and tossed it into a corner.

The point was that he was doing all this without a stitch of clothing on. The man had no concept of shyness, obviously.

Hermione told him so.

He smiled at her. She would never get used to his repertoire of smiles. This one was a real heart-stopper.

"Bit late for blushing isn't it?"

She pulled the sheet over her head. "I will always blush."

"And I will always like that you will always blush," he answered, while pulling on his trousers. "Get dressed. We should have just enough time to get back to Hogwarts before we are officially, indecently late."

That snapped her out of her languorous daze. Hermione gathered her hair over her shoulder in a manner he found utterly feminine. "Really? What time is it?"

"Four in the morning." Draco shoved his wand into a back pocket and Hermione was tempted to nag at him not to. The wizarding world lost a buttock every other week because of such carelessness.

"Which means we'll have to wake up the castle to get back in," she lamented.

Which meant they would have to return separately. The thought depressed her.

He had disappeared into the water closet. "Not necessarily," he said, when he emerged.

He had wet his hair. It was slicked back and she thought, wistfully, that he looked twice as handsome. "I'll get us in."

He had dug into her bag to retrieve the tiny little face towel that had come with the room. It had been dampened with warm water.

"Thought you might want to freshen up," he said, suddenly sounding uncomfortable.

They were in new territory. Draco, especially. She couldn't shake the feeling that she had thrown herself, bodily in the Whirlpool of Fate, and he had only just stuck his big toe in.

A warm towel was lovely, but what she needed was a hot bath, to soothe her physically and mentally.

"You can have a bath when you're back at Hogwarts," he added, almost as an afterthought. He was in the process of putting on his shoes.

"Stop reading my mind," Hermione muttered. She carefully wrapped herself in the sheet and got to her feet, wincing at her soreness.

He caught her by the trailing end of the sheet when she was halfway to the tiny water closet.

All playfulness was gone from his face. "You know we still have a problem right? This doesn't change that."

Funny, she was of the opinion that what they had just done, had changed _everything_.

But he was Malfoy, and he liked to take his time to come to the same conclusions she had already arrived at.

"Yes, I know," was all Hermione said.

She must have sounded quite forlorn because he picked her up about the waist and gave her a soft kiss on the lips. The expression on his face said that he had done it against his better judgement and he seemed a bit brisk when he set her down again.

_People don't fall in love in two weeks_, her brain reminded her, when she was in the privacy of the tiny, little toilet.

This time, there was no shame as she stared at her reflection in the mirror.

"I did," she said to herself, and began to wash her face.

Talking to herself was just another new development in the In Love With Malfoy And Obviously Mental saga that had become her life.

It would have been lovely and all if he had said it back, but she figured he'd need a bit more time.

They had one day


	35. Chapter 35

**Chapter Thirty-Five**

They exited the Cobblestone Inn and entered a maelstrom.

Draco spotted the Innkeeper just as the man was rushing out of the establishment, wearing what looked to be a purple, ladies' dressing gown, two sizes too small, with little rosettes sewn into the lapel. He had his wand drawn and was cursing loudly.

On the street outside, late-night revellers were shouting and running in all directions. The Innkeeper grabbed an ink well from his counter, and hurled it at an elderly gentleman who was rushing across the street as fast as his bow-legged legs could carry him. The ink sloshed through the air, missing the intended target but making a giant lop sided exclamation mark over the cobble-stoned street.

"You owe me three nights' stay, you old bastard!" the man shouted, shaking his fist.

"What's happening?" Draco asked, neatly sidestepping the large man before they collided.

"What's happening is that people are thinking they can skip out on a bill on account of a little Death Eatin' is what," the man huffed, dressing grown flapping wildly to reveal a pair of pale and skinny legs. "Death Eaters better think twice before visiting these parts again! Bad for business, it is!"

They were outside the entrance now and watched as the panic on the street gradually escalated.

The Dark Mark was visible, smoky and bright, seemingly right over them. Though upon closer inspection, it looked to have originated from further inside the district.

Hermione stared at it in horror. "I don't believe this! How did we sleep through _that_?"

Draco was even paler than usual. He watched it for a moment, jaw tensed. "I don't know, but we're leaving right now."

He didn't need to tell her twice. Hermione took his hand and followed him up the street, to head towards Diagon Alley and more familiar territory. Other people were doing the same.

A group of young men who looked and smelled like they had been on a pub crawl, ran into her, and for a moment, Hermione was carried along by the comparatively minor flow of people moving in the opposite direction, eager to catch a clearer glimpse of the Mark.

Like a swimmer caught in a rip tide, she let the group buoy her along until there was enough room to make a break.

Hermione narrowly avoided falling into the gutter, but she did make intimate contact with a grimy, brick wall. A small child, about three or four years of age was holding on to lantern post with both arms and crying.

Luckily, the child's mother appeared out of the scrambling crowd, shouted with relief and scooped him up.

So this was it then, Hermione thought, this was the kind of widespread, _public_ havoc Voldemort could create. It was just like the Quidditch World Cup, only now the chaos had reached Wizarding Britain's hub.

Draco bellowed her name with such force that several people near to her spun around to look. The number of people on the street seemed to have doubled in the past five minutes.

"Here!" she called out, her voice all but lost in the din.

He heard her, Merlin knew how. Within moment, he was there; pulling her along a she kept turning around to gawk up at the Mark.

They kept to the pavement, along the edge of buildings where there was more light. Draco took them into the first alleyway they came across. It was already filling up with like-minded people intent on Disapparating to the safety of their homes.

He stared down at her, looking quite menacing in his seriousness. "Can you Disapparate, or do you need to Floo?" It was a fair question to ask someone who hadn't been in a close combat situation with Death Eaters before.

She was shaken, but she was not anywhere near distraught enough to splinch herself. "I'm fine."

He nodded, wand already in hand. "Do you know that little picnic spot near Hogsmeade station?"

She knew the place. Most Hogwarts students of Hogsmeade-visiting age did. It was an unassuming little clearing beside the lake, sought after for being a very agreeable combination of shady and sunny.

"On three," she whispered.

They arrived together at the agreed upon location. Hermione first, followed by Draco

Hogsmeade Green was an eight minute walk behind them. Hogwarts loomed ahead, beyond the lake and the famed, anti-apparition boundary. On impulse, Hermione scanned the sky. She breathed a sigh of relief to note nothing more untoward that a flock of birds making their way across the lake.

Compared to the noise and panic of where they had just come from, the quiet of the lake was startling.

Hogwarts was home, and at that moment there was nowhere in the world she felt safer. It was also much cooler than in Knockturn Alley. Hermione rubbed at her upper arms to ward away a chill that had as much to do with seeing the Mark yet again, as it did with the weather.

The look on Draco's face said he was thinking about more than just the Mark. He pushed his hair back, straightened his shoulders and started walking.

"Something's not right," Hermione said.

"Besides the fact that we've personally seen two Dark Marks in two short weeks?" he scoffed. "Yes, something is definitely _not_ right."

She walked a little ahead of him and was in the process of tying up her hair. Her hands were still shaking a little and so she only managed a loose bun that looked in danger of coming undone almost as quickly as it was put up.

The nape of her neck was exposed, showing the small curls that clung to the end of her hairline. There was a smudge of dirty just above the scooped neckline of her singlet, above the bump of her spine and before the start of her shoulders. It could have been soot or soil or regular Knockturn Alley grime.

In any case, Draco didn't like seeing it there. Almost absently, he licked the pad of his thumb and cleaned the spot away.

Hermione came to a stop and turned to look at him in amazement. "You didn't just do that."

He seemed more surprised than she was and stared down at his thumb as if it has just asked him how the weather was. "Evidently I did."

It was wise to seize the moment while he was still looking particularly unguarded, she decided. "You really need to tell me if these two Marks have anything to do with what Dumbledore spoke to you about in his office. I don't believe in coincidences."

Draco made an amused noise. "Good, because there's no such thing as coincidence. You'd best get used to the fact. Everything happens because that's the only way it can happen."

"Is that so?" she challenged. There was a 'moral of the story' lecture coming on, Hermione thought.

"Do you know I think I was the first student Potter met before he came to Hogwarts? I didn't realise who the git was at the time. I spoke to him again on the train to Hogsmeade, probably even before you two had met. I made him an offer to be friends. Do you know what he said to me?" he asked, rhetorically.

She shook her head, cautiously curious at the tangent he was on.

"He said he could work out for himself who was the right sort of person to be friends with. Gave me a look like I was a pond scum scraped off the bottom of his shoe."

There was a remarkable amount of bitterness in his voice. Hermione was surprised at how much thought he have given the incident.

She was silent for a moment. And then, she shrugged. "You probably acted like an ass."

"That's beside the point," he insisted, raising a finger for emphasis. "It's not coincidence so much as destiny. It's almost fitting that Potter met _me_ first so he could work out which side of the spectrum to situate himself. People like extremes because they're comforting. They set standards and boundaries. I'm sure Potter got it into his little head, after that first encounter, that he was on the other end of the scale, as far away from me as is metaphorically possible. He likes it like that. So does Voldemort, I'd wager."

For some reason, Hermione wasn't pleased to hear this. She had always thought him a more 'bugger you, I make my own destiny' sort of person. This version of Malfoy was too fatalistic.

Maybe he had Seer's blood in him. Seers were the most depressing people a person could know.

Except for Sybil Trelawney, of course. That woman was just plain old crazy.

"I don't agree," she admitted.

"You don't have to," he responded.

"Harry doesn't have a biased bone in his body." Funnily enough, Hermione knew this to be untrue as soon as she said it.

"If it comforts you to think that," Draco replied, coolly.

"Why do you dislike him so much?"

"Why do you defend him so much?" he snapped at her, harshly enough that she was startled.

Hermione opened her mouth to respond, but then closed it. She supposed she did defend Harry quite a bit. But only because Malfoy seemed to make it his personal mission in life to malign her friend whenever possible.

Draco narrowed his eyes, as if coming to some slow, creeping conclusion. "You have _feelings_ for him." It was a statement he didn't seem to like making.

"Of course I do. We've been friends since we were eleven!"

He snorted. "Your infatuation won't go anywhere. Potter doesn't think of you as more than a friend," he said, as if he were giving her the best advice of her life.

She blinked, as understanding came late, as usual, where Malfoy was concerned.

He was an utter moron sometimes.

"Hang on. We aren't talking about the same thing, are we? I'm not in love with Harry, you idiot."

God, she detested it when he walked away from her whenever she got confrontational. It was the height of rudeness. The aggravation she felt was beyond enduring. It hurt to be dismissed by him.

"I hate you when you do that," she muttered. It was a mutinous, but private exclamation. He wasn't supposed to hear.

He heard, though. He always heard her.

Draco folded his arms "Aren't you a fickle one

Hate or love, Granger, which one is it? Half an hour ago, you were fairly screaming the latter in my ear."

She would not be baited by his wild and irritating exaggerations. Instead, she maintained her dignity and looked down her nose at him.

"You are such a tosser sometimes, Draco Malfoy."

"Ah, but only because you've made me into one," he announced with some lasciviousness. He trotted over and pulled her into his arms She suspected it was his way of apologising for being rude.

"Let go," Hermione said.

He smiled. "Never."

And then he tilted her chin up with his knuckles and proceeded to give her the slowest, most gentle kiss she had ever received from him. It was all very unusual and unsettling.

He wasn't a soft kisser. Wispy, feather-light, butterfly kisses were not very Draco. He kissed like he insulted; forcefully and on occasion, cruelly. He usually kissed her like he wanted to leave an imprint on more than just her flesh.

It was a pleasant change. Hermione did not require any coaxing. She shivered when his tongue rubbed delicately against hers. The pressure of his lips alternated between light and lighter still, his lips stroked and nipped and sucked at hers. He groaned into her mouth when she pulled up the back of his shirt and ran her palm over the small of his back, kneading the muscles there.

Hermione rested her cheek against his chest and was gratified to feel and hear the wild hammering of his heart.

It was a rather romantic and arguably peaceful conclusion to their short-lived spat.

That was, until he loosened the fastenings of his pants and shoved her hand down the front.

He was _utterly_ shameless. Hermione thought she would never be able to put up with such crude treatment, but then why was she breathing more heavily now, and leaning into him.

What transpired was a quick lesson in how to stroke him, how to make a fist and pull on him just the way he preferred. Ever a quick learner, she soon had him gasping against her forehead.

Physical intimacy with Draco was still so new to her. He wasn't programmed to feel shy or embarrassed, which was just as well. She probably felt shy enough for the both of them.

It was frightening to think on how very much she cared for him, for Draco. For the complex, volatile young man breathing hotly into her hair. First impressions would count for nothing when it came to analysing Draco.

One required patience and endurance.

And perhaps a bottle of hard liquor.

_Doors_, she decided. That was what he was made up of. Many doors, each opening to a different emotion or part of him that he liked to keep as guarded as possible. It was his way of coping. Doors would open, with her persistent prodding and she would marvel at unexpected tenderness or his candour. By the same token, other doors would shut.

"Stop," he hissed suddenly, and extricated her hand. His slight shudder told her that her ministrations had nearly undone him.

She tilted her head up so that she could look at his face. His eyelids were at half mast. "

How come you get to ask me all sorts of personal questions and yet when I even try to get a bit closer to you, you bite my head off?"

He sighed. A door creaked open behind his eyes. "Potter makes me jealous. So does Weasley. Damn it, Crookshanks sitting on your lap would probably make me jealous. I'm sorry for being beastly just now, but I guarantee it will happen again. Often, I'm sure."

What a shite apology. Hermione rolled her eyes. "You're beastly eighty percent of the time."

"And the other twenty percent?" he asked, his lips rubbing sideways against hers. Hermione breathed in the question.

"You're horny," she announced and was rewarded with his unrestrained laughter.

She could feel his chest rumble and soaked in the delightful noise like parched desert sand under a seasonal shower.

How the hell did they come to this? They had been discussing fate and coincidence not ten minutes ago.

"Ask and I promise I won't bite your heard off." His voice was husky, indulgent.

"Malfoy, we're in the middle of an emergency," she reminded, letting some exasperation seep into her voice. "We should be rushing back to the Castle to inform them."

_Not standing around having intercourse via conversation._

He rubbed against her and she could feel the heat of him through at least four layers of clothing. "I believe the 'emergency' was avoided when I removed your tight, little fist from my person."

"Draco-"

"Bugger Hogwarts for a moment. Humour me."

She sighed. "What's your favourite colour?"

"Don't have one."

"What's your favourite food?"

"You," he said, and nipped her earlobe.

"Have you ever slept with Pansy Parkinson?"

That ruined the mood somewhat. He stared down at her quite comically. She tried not to crack into a wide grin. "What? I already told you no. God, no!"

"Did you ever want to?" she asked, eyeballing him.

He took an annoying amount of time to think. "Not particularly, but a man may always reconsider his options in periods of….drought."

She pinched his arm for being cheeky, and then grew more sober. "What did the Ministry want with you in Dumbledore's office? Every time you don't tell me, I keep imagining the worst…"

Draco just stared at her, utterly amazed by the fact that he could not lie. He had fully intended to lie to her, of course. For her own good.

It wasn't that he couldn't come up with a decent fabrication, it was just that any lie he formulated in his head could not get past his lips. What the fuck was he supposed to say? _I can't tell you about my spying assignment for the Ministry because you'll think my motives are fuelled by greed and selfishness?_

And really, weren't they? Wasn't he seriously considering betraying the confidence of his friends in order to gain a bit of flexibility from the Ministry with regards to his pending inheritance?

How utterly stupid that now, when he actually wanted her to stay with him, he had no idea how to keep her. He feared her judgement as much as he feared her safety, if she were to be burdened by the sensitive information. She would leave. She would come to her formidable senses; the warmth in her brown eyes when she looked at him would disappear, replaced by a look of mild pity.

There was something very wrong with her for loving him, and he was afraid that whatever mental affliction she was currently suffering from would right itself if she were presented with the unshakeable proof of his black heart.

So Draco said nothing.

Hermione, meanwhile, was unimpressed with what she perceived to be his obvious lack of trust in her. She stiffly removed his arms from around her waist.

"Forget it," she muttered and trudged on ahead. "I'm not asking you again."

He was about to call out to her, to say something placating, something borderline apologetic, but caught himself. A faint thumping and hissing noise on the ground caught his attention.

It was a patch of Tangleweed, sandwiched between two, sizeable rocks. Fat, healthy Tangleweed that was fortunate enough to have been overlooked on the day of Lupin's weeding lesson. The thing was agitated by their approaching footsteps.

Something occurred to him, then.

"Granger, where would you say the first Mark was launched? Not very far south of the Greenhouse, right? We were heading southeast."

Hermione looked at him. "Yes. That's what I told Dumbledore."

Draco seemed to be thinking. "Weasley and Millicent were with us. Most of the others remained near the Greenhouse because it was too bloody hot to do any real work."

"Um, except Harry and Blaise, I think. They headed down to the direction of the Whomping Willow."

Draco raised an eyebrow at this information. "And Saint Potter had nothing to report?"

"If Harry saw something, he would have spoken up, Hermione frowned. "Likewise, Blaise. You saw the look on his face. A stiff breeze could have knocked him over, he was that stunned."

"Were they together the whole time?"

She looked at him suspiciously. "I imagine so. I could ask Harry," she said. "Or you could ask Blaise."

"Mmh," was all he responded with.

They were coming to end of the trail and the beginning of a giant hedge of ancient bracken. Already, the sky above Hogwarts had taken on a lavender tint. The sight of the Castle and its associated responsibilities made her stomach cramp with nervousness. She wondered how far the news of the second Mark had spread.

"Malfoy, wait a second."

There were many things that were _not_ at all their forte, but Hermione reckoned that timing was top on the list.

He watched while she removed her wand, only answering him when he gave her a quizzical look. "We didn't um, ah... that is I didn't use or do anything…earlier."

Some of the tension left his face. It was good that he could nearly read her mind because under ordinary circumstances, her half-stammered explanation left a lot to be desired.

"You mean contraception? Why didn't you um-ah say so?" he teased. "Come here."

She swatted at his hand. "I can do it myself. I just wanted to do it _now_ before we went any further." The thought of casting the spell once inside the Castle seemed a lot like handling a condom in your parent's house.

The spell wasn't hard, but from an emotional perspective, it was something of a big deal to her. He'd think her foolish if she admitted that fact, though.

"Give it here. I've done it before."

Hermione held up her hand. "Spare me the details. You're probably going to tell me you're such an expert you can almost do this wandlessly."

"Not quite," he replied, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards slightly. "You don't have to sound so reproachful. Stand still." Before she could protest, he passed his wand over her abdomen and said the required incantation. There was respectfulness in his voice that she was glad for, and surprised at.

A cool sensation spread over her belly. It was unpleasant, but still better than the bitter potion she had taken at Malfoy Manor. This was also more discreet. She couldn't contemplate going to see Madam Pomfrey for a dose of the aforementioned potion.

"Was that it?" she asked, blinking down at herself. The coolness quickly vanished.

"The male version is a little more involved," he informed.

Hermione raised an eyebrow "So you men keep saying. How did you plan on getting us in at the same time without waking anyone up? The doors aren't unlocked until six a.m."

She supposed they could wait. It wasn't going to be dark for very long but the bracken could provide ample cover. Draco was squinting into the darkness, not looking very bothered by their latest predicament.

"Over there by the entrance."

Hermione stood on her toes to look over his shoulder, seeing as he was in the way and there was nothing but shrubbery around and behind her. This was what had become of her life, she thought - skulking with Draco Malfoy in bushes.

"It's Snape!" she would have recognised the man's stance and blacker-than-black robes anywhere.

He seemed to be glaring into the darkness, as if challenging it to produce anything remotely scarier that he was.

"Did you know he was on entrance patrol at this hour?"

He answered her by stepping out of the bushes. Hermione made to grab him but missed by a few inches and a smirk.

"Psst! Malfoy! Where are you doing?" Snape was going to see them!

Draco's answer wasn't entirely re-assuring. It was, however, news to her.

"Stay there. I'm going to say hello to my godfather."


	36. Chapter 36

**Chapter Thirty-Six**

Snape very nearly blasted his idiotic godson's blond head off the boy's shoulders. For one wild, terrifying moment, he thought that it was Lucius who was calmly walking up towards him.

The gait was the same. The hair was the same silvery white in the early light. But Draco had yet to attain his father's girth and was noticeably lighter on his feet. There was also the small matter of Lucius not being caught dead wearing a t-shirt and old trainers.

"Back, I see," Snape said. He reached into his robes and pulled out a silver timepiece. "You are roughly five hours late, Mr. Malfoy. Your permission slip for your outing yesterday extended to eleven p.m. lock-down. I trust you have not forgotten how to tell time?" Snape's casual reprimand did not convey the slight panic endured by him and Hermione's Head of House, Professor McGonagall.

Three permission slips to Magical London had been signed the previous morning, and only Blaise Zabini had seen fit to return to Hogwarts before night-time curfew set it. McGonagall could only roll her eyes at Draco's disregard for curfews, but it was unusual for the Head Girl to be so careless.

Draco had never been one for pleasantries, no matter that his mother had attempted to drill the importance of manners into his skull. "I've just came from a second Dark Mark sighting in Knockturn Alley," he curtly informed.

Snape looked alarmed, but not overly so. He closed his timepiece with a sharp snap and replaced it inside his pocket. "We have only just been informed. Professor Lupin is due to assume patrol at the end of my shift. I would like very much to speak to you and Miss Granger before you turn in."

No scathing, verbal lashing. No menacing glowers and no threats of detentions well into Draco's twenties.

There was none of this. There was also an uncharacteristic mildness to Snape's voice that Draco did not notice.

Mostly, this was due to shock.

Draco's jaw had dropped to his chest at Snape's almost casual mention of Hermione. "You know about us."

"Yes, I know," Snape replied, annoyed. "It took a good deal of persuasion to dissuade Minerva McGonagall from sending an Owl to Miss Granger's parents to check on her whereabouts seeing as she too is conveniently late. Where is the girl, by the way? You did bring her back with you?"

Draco was insulted by the question. "Of course I brought her back. She's in the bushes," he said, as if this were an entirely normal place for Hermione to be, at that particular point in time.

With some disdain, Snape eyed the hedge of ferns in the distance, where there was currently a noticeable rustling noise. "Miss Granger," he called out.

Hermione stepped out from under a frond, looking sheepish and apprehensive. "Good morning, Professor."

"No, it's not," he snapped. "The two of you, wait in my quarters. _Now_."

**

"This is the first time I've been in here," Hermione whispered to Draco. She was standing in front of an enormous bookcase. The titles were extraordinary enough to make her fingers itch from want of touching.

"I should bloody well hope so, given that this is Professor Snape's personal quarters," Draco muttered.

Hermione looked over her shoulder at him. He was seated in an armchair beside the fireplace, one leg draped over the other, fingers drumming on the leather arm rest. He looked at home. Hermione could easily imagine him having sat through many a Snape-sermon, seated where he was now, giving her an and-now-what-are-you- going-to-say, kind of look.

It was odd being in Slytherin House, let alone in what was undisputedly, its _heart_.

School Captains were allowed anywhere, of course, but there had never been a need for her to visit the Slytherin Common Room or beyond, because Blaise naturally saw to most of the duties within his own House. Harry had of course been in Snape's quarters on quite a few occasions for Occlumency lessons, but he never went into much detail apart from complaining about said lessons.

Snape's living space were sparsely but pleasantly furnished. There looked to be three rooms. The main entrance from the Slytherin corridors opened into the sitting area and office. The adjoining rooms, separated by double doors on either end of the central room probably opened into sleeping quarters and Snape's private laboratory.

It was all very _male_, Hermione decided, and scholarly. That was expected.

There were mahogany bookcases laid into two of the stone walls, overloaded and practically groaning. The other furniture was also mahogany, except for a beautiful, claw-footed, rosewood and mother of pearl desk, which was kept relatively clutter-free. It didn't really match the rest of the furniture, but its placement and good condition attested to the esteem in which its owner held it.

She took a seat in a green damask armchair, opposite from Draco, and yawned. It was easy to forget how little sleep they had managed to squeeze in, over the past week.

"So how on earth does Snape know about our Fida Mia problem?"

Draco shrugged. He was definitely irritated by the fact. "How does he know most things? He just does. I'll find out, though."

Hermione noticed that he was looked a little peaked. He was resting his forehead on his palm. Granted, he was already as white a baby's bottom, but at the moment there was also a greyish cast to his complexion. Given that she had recently seen all there was to see of his skin, she thought she could spot the difference with some authority.

"Malfoy, are you feeling alright?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "My head's still killing me," he admitted and then managed to force out a lascivious expression from underneath his fingers. "I'm _drained_, is what I am."

Hermione did not approve of his leering under such serious circumstances. Only Malfoy could maintain his usual crudeness with kidnapped Aurors, Dark Marks flying over their heads and whatnot about to happen.

"Oh, stop that. Your godfather is going to walk through that door any second now."

"Ah yes, the look on your face when you found out." He sounded thoughtful. "I thought half the school at least had a clue by now."

"There's a lot I don't know about you with your clothes on," she said, quite primly.

He laughed, leaned back in his chair and regarded her with a fond expression. It could have been because he was tired and thus, too weary to be smarmy, but his gaze was genuinely warm. "Don't put too fine a point to your wit-"

There were footsteps approaching. Hermione glanced at the door. "Someone's coming."

"For fear it should get blunted," he added, waggling his eyebrows.

The door opened without even the tiniest creak - something that was practically unheard of in Hogwarts Castle when it came to doors - and Snape strode into the room. He barely looked at them before saying, "Be seated."

They were already seated. "As we were, then," Draco quipped.

"Your amusement is in bad taste, Mr. Malfoy."

"Sorry."

"Professor, has there been any word on Nymphadora Tonks or the other missing Auror?" Hermione asked. She felt wretched for not asking sooner.

"If there was, Miss Granger, I hardly think you'd be entitled to that information," came the cool reply.

Hermione immediately bristled. What nonsense! She was as much an Order member as he was!

Ah, but then Draco was _not_. Snape had remembered this fact, even if she hadn't. Hermione suddenly realised that she still had quite a few secrets from Draco (who was in the process of looking at her oddly). She rubbed her nose and turned her attention back to Snape.

"It's not looking good, is it?" Draco said to his Head of House. Hermione remembered then, that they were talking about his cousin, and the feeling of wretchedness increased.

Snape was markedly more polite in his reply to his godson. "The Headmaster takes personal issue with the fact that two members of Ministry Law Enforcement should go missing on school grounds. He is assisting Alastor Moody with the investigation."

"Dumbledore doesn't know about us, does he?" Hermione asked. Dumbledore knowing was almost as bad as Harry and Ron knowing.

"He does not," Snape confirmed. He looked at Draco. "Your father contacted me after you returned with Miss Granger from Malfoy Manor," he explained.

Draco was surprised. "You speak with him via Floo fire? I didn't realise he had that luxury."

"A luxury for _him_, to be sure. Not so much for me," Snape replied. Hermione thought there might have been amusement in his voice, but it was probably her imagination.

"Who else knows?" Draco asked, with a frown. That was going to be Hermione's next question.

Snape answered without hesitation. "Professor Lupin. As you are aware, his senses are considerably keener than the average human's. He was able to detect the workings of the spell on the both of you, during last Wednesday's lesson."

The thought that Lupin had quite literally 'sniffed them out', was alarming. "Would anyone else pick up on it that way?"

"I doubt it, Miss Granger."

"It was a foolish mistake, sir," Hermione said. "Believe me. Under normal circumstances-"

Snape's hand shot up into the air, in a pale blur. "I do not require or wish to endure an explanation. That is not why I asked to speak with you. Your documented, continuous disregard for rules attests to the fact that you both think you are old enough to get yourselves killed. Merlin knows you are foolish enough. My only concern is that you usually choose to exercise this disregard during school hours and that your recent outing to London just happened to coincide with a murder."

Draco swore. Snape let it slide.

"The Dark Mark in Knockturn Alley. Are you saying someone was actually _killed_ this time?"

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy," Snape said, the epitome of considerate patience, "unless you can think of some other product of murder?"

"Who was it?"

"The identity of the victim is not known as yet. Was your meeting with the Fida Mia expert fruitful?" The change in topics was swift, if not very smooth.

Snape didn't need to wait for an answer. The scowl on Draco's face and the pronounced blush on Hermione's, was answer enough.

"I see, that is indeed unfortunate." Snape sighed. Folded his arms, and then sighed once more. "There is…there is something else that I need to tell you."

They waited.

Draco was speechless. He had never seen his godfather stuck for words. He turned to glance at Hermione and noted that she too was staring at Snape as if the man had just announced his fondness for the colour pink.

"Draco," Snape began. "It's about your mother."

Something heavy and cold materialised, and then descended in Draco's stomach.

"What about her?"

"It was reported on the front page of yesterday's Daily Prophet, but I suppose you haven't had an opportunity to read the paper yet? No. No, of course you haven't." "Sir?" Draco prompted, when Snape didn't continue.

"Draco, I am truly sorry to be the one to tell you this. Sorrier than I can say."

"Tell me _what_?" Draco demanded.

"Your mother is dead." The announcement was delivered in a dispassionate, matter of fact tone. "She died some three months ago. The original finding was suicide, and there has been a lengthy investigation since that time. The details of the case have been kept closely guarded."

'Closely guarded' was an understatement. Hermione's hand came to her mouth. The shock was enormous, but the sudden tightness in her chest was what stole her breath away. She had experienced a similar sensation when Draco had been knocked unconscious by the rogue bludgers; except then, there had been a strange, cold void; an indicator that something untoward had happened to him. Now, she was picking up a torrent of dark emotions streaming from him.

She couldn't tell the hurt from the anger or the shock. For a few moments, her vision was a black, swirling mess. It was almost physically painful.

He didn't move, didn't speak. He just continued to stare at the carpet by the fireplace. She wanted to walk over to him and hold his hand, but she felt weighted down to her chair by the force of what she was feeling.

Snape was frowning. "Draco, did you hear what I said?"

"Yes. What would you like me to respond with? She left without a word of farewell and now she's permanently gone. I fail to see the difference."

"There is a difference!"

"How did she die?" Hermione whispered.

Snape transferred his intense, black gaze to her. "An overdose of opium, however-"

"Have you told my father yet?" Draco interrupted.

Snape actually looked pained as he said this. "Draco, your father _knows_. He's known for months, but he hasn't been able to tell you."

Hermione was beyond disgusted. "Lucius Malfoy has reached new levels of low, hasn't he?"

Draco looked up. Something like hope flashed across his face. "But the money that has been deposited into my Gringotts account each month… that was supposed to have come from Mo- Narcissa. How is that possible?"

Snape hesitated for a moment. "The money is from me. I'm afraid I've known as well. It was our plan to inform you at the right time."

"The right time being the news of her murder splashed all over the Daily Prophet!" Hermione scoffed. It was almost like she was speaking for Draco. Merlin knew she could feel his rage very clearly now. It all but obliterated the other emotions. "Rather, you decided that your only option was to tell him now before he found out on his own, in the worst possible way!"

Draco shot up to his feet, albeit a bit shakily. "Your _plan_?" he spat. "Yours and Lucius' you mean? You knew You both knew my mother was gone all this time and you never told me!" His voice caught. "I wrote _letters_ to that woman for three months and all this while I assumed she was simply disinclined to write back."

"I assume full responsibility," was all Snape could or perhaps, would say, to the accusation being laid at his feet. "It was a lapse in judgement on my part, to not have told you sooner. It is imperative that you listen to me now, however. You are in danger. Both of you. You need to be exceedingly careful. The investigation has uncovered the fact that Narcissa didn't commit suicide as we had thought. She was murdered, Draco. For reasons I can only guess at, at this stage, I believe that the Death Eaters are making an example of your family. We had your best interests at heart when the decision was made not to tell you."

"_Murdered_?" Draco whispered hoarsely, his eyes narrowed into slits. "My mother was murdered?" The look of shock transformed into painful horror and then, there was nothing.

He shook his head and then swallowed audibly. "I…I'm sorry, Professor," Draco began, his voice dripping with ice, "but somehow I don't think this school, or the Ministry, or my father, it would seem, has _ever_ had my best interests at heart. I am going to demand some answers, rest assured, but they won't be from _you_. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to bed."

He took a step, stumbled, and then held out his hand to Hermione. The look in his eyes was a naked plea for her to aid him before he keeled over altogether. Hermione was there in an instant.

Snape frowned deeply. He stood. "Miss Granger, I believe you will need my assistance."

The unfairness of it all made Hermione want to hit something. All the nasty, unkind things she had ever thought about Snape over the years, condensed into one, chilling look. She anchored her arm around Draco's narrow waist and together, they made their way to the door.

"Thank you, Professor, but I think I can manage."

She just about slammed the door in his face.

**

Snape stood, staring at the closed door for many minutes. Absently, he looked down at his hand and sighed when he saw that it was shaking.

He made a fist. The shaking stopped.

In the end, he was no better than Lucius. There were so many opportunities, so many previous chances to sit the boy down and tell him, but he hadn't.

Of all the many responsibilities and duties that were his, there had always been one that he had genuinely enjoyed.

Draco.

It was both a pain and a pleasure to watch the boy grow into manhood. Snape was a poor choice for a godfather. He was an old, hardened, bitter, former Death Eater; a former spy with a list of enemies as long as his right arm. But then Lucius was hardly parent-material himself. A pity that children could not dictate which families they were born into.

What was, simply had to be endured.

As much as he cared for the boy, when the time came to finally prove it, Snape had failed dismally. Twice he had failed Draco. First, when he had stood by when Ministry had given the boy the preposterous and futile task of spying and then, again, when he could have been forthcoming about Narcissa's death. It had been old sentiment for Lucius that had held him back.

He had needed the girl to be there, to catch Draco. And Granger had done just that, with a coolness that he would have applauded if the circumstances had not been so tragic.

Snape recalled what Draco had said in Dumbledore's office, on the afternoon of the first Dark Mark citing outside of Hogsmeade. The boy was correct. The Ministry did not reward heroes. It _used_ them.

This was a world that had thought nothing of placing the weight of their freedom on the shoulders of an eleven-year old boy. That had been Harry Potter's introduction to the Wizarding World. Dumbledore was as guilty of this as the average wizard in the street. The community was also just as quick to condemn and mutter when the slightest of their suspicions were piqued.

Draco was wise to this hypocrisy. There were more shades of grey than there was Dark or Light. A young Snape had known this too, but instead of turning his back on expectations, as Draco had eventually done, Snape did the opposite. He had picked a side. And that old mistake echoed in everything that he did today.

He would do right by the boy. He would have to, if only to inject some balance into the world. He was going to have a long talk with Albus and Arthur Weasley. They might play the Hand of God with Harry Potter, but they were not going to do the same with his godson.

**

As it turned out, Snape had been right. Draco wasn't at all well and Hermione did end up requiring some assistance.

Draco stopped suddenly, slumping against a wall. His breathing became short and shallow. He raised a hand and pressed his palm against his forehead where beads of perspiration were appearing.

Afraid he was going to pass out from hyperventilation, Hermione took his hands, put them around her shoulders and asked him to use her for support. He hadn't said anything since they walked out of Snape's office. Draco held her to him for a few minutes, his face buried in her hair.

Eventually, his breathing slowed to match hers.

"It's going to be fine," she said, almost gritting her teeth to keep her chin from wobbling. "You're going to be fine." It hardly mattered what Narcissa had been to the rest of the world. She had been Draco's mother and must have surely loved him.

Hermione endured the phantom hurts of Draco's grief. She discovered that second-hand grief did not lose its sharp edge.

"Everything I touch turns to dust," he whispered into her hair. The agony in his voice was heart-wrenching. "Everything that has any meaning. This life is wasted. My family is cursed."

She shook her head vigorously and pulled back to stare at him. "That's not true, Draco."

His expression was bleak, tired, defeated. It was scaring her. He gently tucked a curl behind her ear and regarded her with a very grave expression. If he had the strength, Hermione was certain he would have shaken her by the shoulders.

"Hermione, I'm not playing anymore. I can't keep you. What we're doing now, Snape is right, it's _dangerous_. That discussion in Dumbledore's office was about an assignment, you see? The Ministry wants me to report on the other Slytherins. They want me to do this over the summer and who knows for how much longer after."

Spying! So that was what they had asked him to do, and no doubt they were dangling a very large axe over his head, disguised as a carrot.

"They can't ask that of you! Especially not now!"

"They ask as much of Potter," was all he said. His expression did not change. "There's a Death Eater Recruitment underway and if I'm not mistaken, someone is trying to send me a message." He threaded his fingers through hers.

The look he gave her made her want to openly weep. "I can't watch over you all the time, especially over the summer. You'll stay at Weaselby's place, won't you? Please, you'll be safe there."

"I'm not listening to this," she insisted, vehemently. "What they're forcing you to do is illegal! You can't be made to agree. They may have your father's life in their hands, but not yours."

"I signed an agreement. It's legal and binding." He braced more of his weight against the wall and shut his eyes. "Granger, I…I really think I need to lie down. My head hurts." There was such raw honesty in his voice that Hermione was instantly alarmed.

Malfoy was not one to blurt out that he wasn't feeling well. He looked positively green. How could she have forgotten that he had been in bed, recovering from a concussion not two days ago?

"Where is your room?" she whispered. It seemed shameful that she didn't know where he slept. It was a tiny, personal detail she ought to have known. He didn't respond. He licked his lips and looked like he was about to be sick. She touched his pale cheek.

"Draco?"

"It's over here," answered a soft voice. "I'll show you."

It was Pansy. She was standing in the darkness, wearing white satin pyjamas, matching, quilted bedroom slippers and holding a lit wand.

"Snape's told him, then?" she stated, and then nodded before Hermione could respond. "Goyle and I only found out yesterday evening, in the paper."

Hermione was actually glad to see her. Slytherin House was foreign territory and she was less than comfortable navigating its dark corridors. "He's not feeling well," she said, running the back of her hand under her running nose. "I think we should get Madam Pomfrey."

If Draco passed out now, there was no way the two of them could lift him without Leviosa. Hermione knew he'd hate it if she resorted to asking Snape for assistance.

It would have to be Parkinson.

Pansy shook her head. There were tears in her eyes. "I'll help. We don't need the nurse." She stepped forward, took hold of his arm and pried him, slowly, off the wall. He acted as if they'd dropped a bag of bricks over his head. He winced. Hermione was worried enough that she was about to run to fetch Madam Pomfrey after all, when Draco spoke.

"Panse," he murmured. "My mum's dead." The heavy emotion and familiarity in his voice caused Hermione to experience a twinge of jealousy, but she quickly squashed it, appalled at her selfish thoughts.

"I know, darling."

"It's fucked, Pansy."

"I know. Hush now, we're taking you to bed."

The situation would have been awkward if it weren't so sad. He allowed them to loop and arm each over their shoulders. It helped that both girls were the same height. His room was at the end of the corridor, or so it seemed. Hermione had walked right past it with Draco, earlier.

She knew Pansy could have found her way there in the dark quite easily, and was thankful that the girl kept her wand lit, for Hermione's benefit.

The door to Draco's room was locked and it took Pansy a combination of Alohomora, passwords and old fashion doorknob jiggling to finally get the thing open.

"He's paranoid about security," she said, catching Hermione's look.

Once inside, candles on the wall flared to life. The room was exactly the same as Hermione's, if a little smaller. The ceiling was lower, too. His bed was not beneath a window, seeing as the dungeons did not open to the outside. It sat facing the door. His trunk was against the wall to the left, beside his desk.

The room was absolutely spotless, which was itself a surprise. There was a new, broomstick servicing kit sitting on the desk and a fortune in Quidditch gear hanging from brass hooks on the wall.

They took the few necessary steps to the bed and there, he collapsed. He put a hand over his eyes, rolled to his side and then didn't move a muscle. The light was probably bothering him. Hermione blew out the candles and then bent down to pull his shoes off.

Pansy let her do that, but stopped her when she went to his trunk to look for a night shirt.

"Leave it," the Slytherin girl said. "He either falls into bed with what he's got on, or he doesn't wear anything at all."

Hermione didn't know what to make of that, so she didn't say anything. There was a chair at his desk, she started to walk toward it, but found Pansy standing in her path.

"You can't stay here, Granger. We don't do that. We never do that."

By 'we', Hermione assumed Pansy meant Slytherins. "The hell I can't," she snapped.

Pansy shook her head, but there was nothing but earnestness in her expression. "I'm serious. Some things, you don't muck about with. It's not done. He'll be cross with himself if either of us stays here tonight."

Hermione sniffled loudly. She had had a gutful of stubborn Slytherins, but a part of her knew Pansy was being correct, rather than vindictive.

There was some sort of Slytherin code. Thou shalt not cry in public, thou shalt not date Hufflepuffs, and the like.

"I'm not doing this to be difficult. It's what he'd prefer. I'll check in on him before breakfast. After that, he's all yours."

Feeling numb, Hermione stroked the hair off Draco's forehead, not caring that Pansy watched. It was good that he slept, if only because Hermione didn't know how else to help him. She felt useless. "I'll come and find you first thing in the morning," she told him. Her voice caught at the end. "I promise."

After she had a very long talk with Harry.

And made some very firm plans.

"Come on, I'll show you out," Pansy said, softly.

With effort, Hermione tore her eyes away from her sleeping husband, and followed Pansy out of the room. It was a sombre procession. The door clicked shut behind them.

"You and I need to stop running into each other like this, Granger," Pansy remarked, dryly. It was as about as tastefully humorous as was possible, given the situation.

They walked quickly down the corridor, arriving once more in the Slytherin Common Room. Pansy pushed open the doors and Hermione stared for a moment, out into the darkness of the lower ground hallway.

There was a steadily building pressure at the back of her throat, the product of suppressing her tears. Pansy, in contrast, was very collected. Hermione knew she had been close to crying earlier, but the girl's nose wasn't even red.

"How long have you felt this way about him?" Hermione asked.

"Since I was ten," Pansy replied, without any embarrassment. "Don't give me that sceptical look, Granger. I know exactly _what_ he is most of the time. And I also think you know that what he is sometimes isn't always something to complain about. We would have been good together."

Hermione was almost inclined to agree.

Pansy sighed. It was a dainty noise. "Narcissa was a bitch and really screwed up as far as mothering went, but she did have a way about her." She fingered the brass handle of the Common Room doors. "He gets his grace from her, you know. And those cheekbones, of course."

"Thank you, Pansy," Hermione said. It just needed to be said.

The other girl shrugged. "Don't look so depressed. There are only a few of us left at school now and we're all leaving for good tomorrow. I doubt things can get much worse."

**

Pansy made her way back to her own room. It was in the middle of the corridor and the nearest to the lounge area. She really was going to miss it. The placement of the room and the acoustics of the dungeon meant that she often - unwittingly, of course - overheard common room conversation.

She placed her hand on the knob to turn it, and was startled when the door swung open from the inside.

"Is he back, then? Did you tell him? What did Granger have to say?" Goyle asked, impatiently. There was a fair sized depression on the edge of the mattress from where he had been sitting and waiting for her. They had been doing that most of the night, given that Draco was supposed to have returned to Hogwarts by eleven o'clock the previous evening.

Pansy frowned, pushed past him and didn't speak until the door was shut. "Lower your voice! _They're_ back, yes. Turns out we didn't need to break the news to him. Professor Snape did it himself."

Goyle shifted his considerable weight from right foot to left foot. "How is he?"

"Could be better," Pansy sighed. "He's a bit ill at the moment, which is expected given the news." She kicked off her bedroom slippers and sat on the bed.

There was a yellow, stuffed elephant lying in between two, cream-coloured cushions with brocade piping. She grabbed the elephant and hugged it to her.

There was a very pregnant pause.

"Seeing as it's done now, you should try and get some sleep. It's past sunrise."

She didn't immediately reply, but continued to worry the elephant's ears between her fingers. "Did you see Blaise yesterday?" she asked Goyle, without looking up.

"No."

"Would it be too much to hope that he's taken a wrong turn somewhere, fallen off a cliff and died?" Her voice was flat.

"_Pansy_-"

"You're an idiot if you think he'll just let you quit after a few years. Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater, Goyle."

Goyle shook his head. "I'm not going the same way as my dad. Trust me. I'll find a way to leave, and then I'll set you and your family up. You won't have to worry about anything. Just wait for me. That's all I ask."

She eyed him good and long, letting her intense disappointment show. "In the entire sordid history of Death Eaters, you have to be the only one who wants to join because it's your early retirement plan."

That wasn't true. Plenty of people joined for equally dubious reasons. Fame, fortune, glory…love of torture.

Actually, he was joining because Pansy's bankrupt father had forbidden him to make an offer for her unless he amassed a small fortune in a short space of time. The Goyles had never been obscenely wealthy to begin with and what money they had, had gone the same way as the Malfoy fortune.

Blaise, who was already comfortably well off by his own admission, had painted a very profitable picture indeed.

Evil, megalomaniacal overlords required capital to fund their activities. After all, a Dark Lord still needed a roof over his head, and if gossip was true, Voldemort's tastes ran to the gothically extravagant. There were quite a few illegal enterprises covertly operated by Voldemort supporters. Trade in illicit substances and restricted artefacts were prime examples. Blaise had also mentioned that a fledgling potions lab had been set up with the intent of manufacturing illegal drugs for sale on the Muggle market.

While the more senior Death Eaters seemed concerned with vendetta and in pursuing Voldemort's end-game, a new generation of followers like Blaise saw the movement as more than just a vehicle to drive Voldemort's ideas about blood purity. Muscle was always needed to keep such operations running. Goyle may not have been the brightest spark, but he knew how to be intimidating, he knew how to be back-up, how to flank and protect.

He had been doing that all his life.

There was money to be made, power and influence to be gained. Goyle was not so ambitious. He just wanted a head start. With his family name already hopelessly blackened and a dismal academic record, career options were scarce.

"Draco would have joined, if things had worked out differently." He thought he should point that out to Pansy, who was Unofficial President of the Draco Malfoy Fan Club.

Pansy snorted. "Probably, but you're not Draco. You'll be on your own if you join. He won't be there to watch out for you."

"I don't need him there!" he said, a bit too loudly, because her blue eyes widened.

Goyle wanted to thump something.

He was making a right mess of things. All he had wanted to do, before he left Hogwarts, was to set things right with Draco, to offer a few words of sympathy about Narcissa, and then say farewell to Pansy. He had thought about writing a letter to Millicent, but Pansy had advised against it. Just in case. It was just as well, because Goyle was crap at writing letters.

He was crap at a lot of things, apparently. With a heavy heart, he took a step toward the door, paused and then turned to glare at Pansy.

"I'm going now," he said, pointedly.

The elephant was having the life squeezed out of it. "Good. Go."

Goyle made a sound. If Male Frustration had a noise, _this_ was that noise. "I probably won't be able to see you again for a year or so."

"Fine. Whatever."

She was such a cow. He had no idea why he loved her so much. "For Merlin's sake, Pansy! Are you going to say goodbye to me or not!"

Pansy threw the stuffed elephant onto her bed and stood up, her brief nose in the air.

"Goodbye, Gregory. I hope that the death you will surely meet in the next month or so will be quick and relatively painless."

He stared at her, incredulous. "_Relatively_?" She waved him off. "I have given up trying to change your mind. You're a fool. Go and be a Death Eater. I'll probably forget all about you after a week."

It was a small room. One step brought him to her. Another step brought her into his arms. He then proceeded to kiss her like he'd been dying to do for three years. She struggled at first, and smacked him on his right bicep, but he had the element of surprise on his side.

There was also the fact that he had nothing more to lose at that moment. This gave him the kind of bravado that had so far been lacking in his courtship of Pansy.

After a minute or so, he deposited her on her bed, breathless and pink-cheeked. She absently reached for the elephant again.

"You'll remember _that_," he mumbled gruffly, and then he was out the door and out of her life.

Pansy spent the next two hours crying into her elephant. Goyle had given it to her for her twelfth birthday.


	37. Chapter 37

**Chapter Thirty-Seven**

_His mum was looking a bit misty-eyed as she stood in Madam Malkin's showroom and observed Draco in his school robes. _

_The hem of the ordered robes had been a tad too long and had to be taken up. _

_Draco looked at his mum's reflection in the mirror, as she stood behind him and suddenly wished she'd stayed at home. Goyle's dad had volunteered to take the boys to buy their school things, but Narcissa had insisted on accompanying Draco personally. It was, after all, the last time they would see each other before Draco started his first year at Hogwarts. _

_Narcissa Malfoy was not very good company on an outing to a place like Diagon Alley. Goyle's father was an ogre of a man, but he was not above a bit of tomfoolery when the occasion called for it; like throwing 'Exploding Ants' at the heels of Muggles, for example. It was easy enough to spot them. They were the ones who inevitably gawked at everything. _

_Narcissa, on the other hand, worried about things like too much sun and Muggles and crowds and running into people she didn't want to run into such as Mrs So-and So from last Sunday's afternoon tea. _

_But still, she had wanted to accompany her son, and so there she was, smiling fondly at him as she picked off a loose thread from the black material of his robes. _

_She covered her sentimentality with a sharpish comment. "You're not quite as tall as your father was at the same age, but I suppose you have plenty of time to catch up." _

_Draco fervently hoped so. It would not do to remain two heads shorter than Goyle and the same height as Pansy Parkinson. Shortness had long since been eliminated from the Malfoy bloodline. _

_That, and giggling. _

"_What's left on the list?" his mother asked. _

_Draco remembered that he had stashed it in his back, trouser pocket. He retrieved the list and unfurled it. Mother and son consulted the last two items. _

"_I've yet to pick an owl and a wand," Draco said _

_Narcissa nodded. "Your owl has already been arranged. Your father's seen to the selection personally. His name is Pietro and he's very fine." _

_Of course the bird would be fine. Lucius didn't know the meaning of the word 'substandard'. Draco was a bit put out by the fact that he would not be permitted to choose his own owl, though. He had even briefly entertained the notion of getting a cat, but that was out of the question. He would require a safe and secure means of communicating with his parents and a school bird would not do. _

_That left only one other thing to be done. Draco changed out of his school robes while his mother paid Madam Malkin, and then they crossed the street with their packages and headed down to Ollivanders, where his mother paused just outside the shop. _

_The wind and the walk had caused several wisps of her blonde hair to escape her previously immaculate chignon and she tucked these loose strands behind her ear. His mother was perhaps the most beautiful witch Draco had ever seen. Not a vibrant-pretty, like Blaise Zabini's mother, but the sort of beautiful you had to take a step back from, to appreciate. Her features were almost plain in isolation, but together, she seemed pristine, perfect. _

"_Draco, come here." _

_He did as requested. She smoothed the parting of his already smooth hair and made a fuss of straightening his perfectly ironed collar. It occurred to him that there really wasn't much mother-stuff for her to do. _

_Everything, right down to the preparation of his meals and the way his pyjamas were laid out for him on his bed, while he had his baths, was seen to by Manor staff. _

"_Mother…" he whined, when she trailed her long, scented fingers over his cheeks. _

_Thank goodness the Goyles were still at Flourish and Blotts. He'd never hear the end of it from Greg. His face was still chubby. He hated that. _

"_A wand means many things," she explained, a little breathlessly. "It means you are grown up, Draco. You were born a wizard and a Malfoy, but now you will earn these titles. Your father and I have high expectations of you. No doubt, you'll make us very proud." _

"_Only if I end up in Slytherin," he emphasised. If only he got a Galleon every time his father brought up the topic of Sorting, the Malfoys would have been twice as rich as they were. _

_She raised an eyebrow. "One does not end up in Slytherin, dear. One is born to it." _

_Her tone of voice did not allow for what ifs, so he simply said, "Yes, mother." _

"_Now, after we buy your wand, what would you like to do? We still have an hour to spare." _

_Draco's mood lightened considerable, even as he noticed that his mum seemed a little sad. "Really? We can do anything?" _

_She smiled. "Anything." _

"_Even ice-cream?" He knew she disliked being jostled about at Florean Fortescue's, which was going to be completely filled with children and their parents. _

"_Yes," she agreed, touching his cheek, "let's have some ice-cream."_

**

It happens, that in the first few moments when a person wakes up, they sometimes forget where they are and what has happened to them up until the point that they awaken.

Draco experienced just this feeling of 'nothingness'. He opened his eyes, registered that he was warm and comfortable and that that these things were all he really cared about at that particular moment.

And then, he _remembered_.

It wasn't grief. Grief would have been preferable to the guilt he was feeling. Guilt was funny like that. Grief could be dulled over time, but guilt had real staying power. Draco squeezed his eyes shut and felt the huge, invisible weight of reality bearing down on him. He wanted to pull the covers over his head and stay in bed until the nightmare spent itself.

He wanted to believe that he still had a few more years of growing up to do, and that the problems he currently faced would just have to wait until he was bloody ready to face them. Draco sighed. He could not hide from reality, which insofar as it applied to the last fortnight, went as follows:

He was bullied into accepting a dangerous assignment by the Ministry of magic.

His mother had been murdered.

The Auror cousin he knew he had, but had never met, had gone missing a scant two days after meeting him.

Death Eaters apparently had in it for him. Lastly, and by no means least, he was married to Hermione Granger.

Marcus Flint, the former Captain of Slytherin Quidditch had always said that Draco got better, sharper and more focussed when things were at their absolute shittiest in a game.

It was no different now.

He eventually sat up in bed and grimaced at how heavy his head felt. His mind was clear, however, and the headache could be fixed with a quick stop at the Infirmary. It was important to keep going. If he even paused to think about what his mother's final moments might have been like, he would…he would just…

Draco swallowed the lump that had appeared in his throat. No. He would not think of it. He could not. He was in serious danger of unravelling as it was. He felt worn out. His shoulder was sore too, which meant that he had spent too much time sleeping on it.

Merlin, he felt like an old man in need of a long, relaxing vacation in which nobody would try to frame him, target him, dislocate parts of his body, fall in love with him or murder what was left of his family.

What was left of his family was basically Lucius and Toolip, their loyal, remaining House Elf.

Ironically, his father was probably located in the safest place in the entire wizarding world. Toolip, meanwhile, had her own brand of magic to protect her and it was doubtful that any of Voldemorts' people could even guess at the affection that Draco felt for the old elf.

That left Granger. She was family now, wasn't she?

The Forces of Evil Depravity knew about them. Draco was certain of it. He would need to speak to Potter about that. No doubt the Boy Who Did Not Own A Hairbrush had already learned of Narcissa's death.

Snape mentioned that it had been in the papers, after all. The news was probably everywhere by now. Draco knew Harry was not the sort to gloat over such a thing. That would have been preferable, actually. An excuse to punch Potter in the face might even make him feel a little better. But Draco knew the only reaction he would receive from Harry would be pity.

And _that_, he could not handle.

Draco felt like there wasn't much hide left on him to insulate himself against the world. Self-pity was something he had never indulged in, though, and he wasn't about to give in to the temptation.

Damn it, he wanted Hermione. Where the hell was she? Why hadn't she stayed with him? Wasn't that exactly the kind of thing she was liable to do? Caring and coddling and whatever other soft and fluffy things girls like her did to take away hurts from the people they cared about?

He knew the answer even as he thought this. If they weren't at Hogwarts, he would be free to take her to bed and keep her there for a week, as penance for adding to his life's troubles. She could have been there with him now, watching him as he awakened. She would touch him, kiss him, distract him. He wanted to see his pain mirrored in her clear, brown eyes because he sure as hell knew he wouldn't be able to bear seeing it in his own eyes.

Draco avoided the small mirror over his dresser for this very reason. It was the last, official day of his schooling career and yet he felt nothing apart from irritation at the state of his wrinkled school pants, as he pulled them on.

His tie went on next, and still he did not feel the poignancy he thought he should be feeling. There was only so much intense emotion he could spare, he decided.

He had a made a decision before leaving Snape's office the previous evening.

It wasn't a difficult choice, but it was going to be a difficult task. Draco had little faith in the Ministry's brand of justice. He wanted real justice, not the kind the bureaucrats and the Wizengamot weighed and measured out.

He wanted _revenge_. It was the only thing that made sense to him. He would do this final thing for his mother.

Gods, it was going to be hard. He had no combat training other than duelling club, which was a joke. He had his brains, his reflexes and an encyclopaedic knowledge of minor curses and hexes. He was also a Malfoy. Surely that meant a natural talent for evil-doing. Would that be enough?

It didn't matter. He would find the people responsible for killing his mother. He would do it personally, even if it took him years.

_They dared to touch his mother_, he thought, with fresh anguish. Disbelief mingled with rage. Imprisonment was one thing. Assassination was quite another.

This was his father's fault. The pathetic bastard couldn't stop his wife from leaving him and then he couldn't offer her any protection after she did.

It was his fault as well. He hadn't bothered to see her after she had left the Manor. He had been too caught up in being hurt over her apparent rejection of him. Perhaps it hadn't been rejection after all. Perhaps she had feared for his safety and thought to put as much distance between them. No matter about the flaws in their relationship, though. Draco had never doubted that she cared for him.

Best not to dwell on her motives. It did not even enter into his head that Narcissa would not have wanted her son to pursue the matter of her death. These types of considerations didn't apply to them, to the Malfoys. And she had been a Black, to boot. Blood-vengeance would be expected. He owed that much to the woman who had brought him into the world.

His father had killed. His mother had stood by her husband, accepting, if not always understanding or approving. Yes. Narcissa would not fault her son for avenging her.

"Mother, wherever you are, I hope you're a hell of a lot happier than you were with us."

Draco did not worry that God would frown down at him for slipping a blasphemy into the makeshift prayer.

God had a sick sense of humour. After all, he had given Draco Hermione Granger.

**

"So," Hermione asked. "Are you going to say anything?"

It was after breakfast and Hermione, Harry and Ron were seated in her favourite corner in a deserted Hogwarts Library. Hermione felt that it was safest to tell them her news in the part of Hogwarts she knew no one was likely to visit on their last day of school before the summer holidays.

It was a brilliantly sunny day outside. A good day for bad news, or so she thought. Ginny was still polishing off her breakfast in the Great Hall and thus had no idea what was transpiring. Hermione thought that this was for the best.

She would start with the boys first, as they would no doubt prove more difficult.

Harry was still staring at her oddly, though at least his previously gaping mouth had closed. Ron was doing something else entirely. He had walked off, returned, paced in front of the desk with his hands on his hips while contemplating the ground with a great and moody intensity.

"I'm still trying to wrap my head around the part where you said you had run off with him in the middle of the Graduation party, but then you hit me with the fact that the two of you are married," Harry stated. He looked floored.

Hermione noted that he had slowly taken off his glasses and had placed them carefully on the table top. He usually only did this when extremely disturbed or when he was suffering from a headache. The look on his face suggested it might be a combination of both.

"And now that you _have_ wrapped your head around it?" Hermione prodded. She couldn't help feeling like she was telling her parents that she had been sneaking out of the house to date a boy they didn't approve of.

It would be fantastic if they would skip ahead to the _oh my God how could you it's Malfoy_ stage already.

"I can't believe you've managed to keep this a secret for two whole weeks." Harry actually sounded impressed.

"Neither can I," she admitted.

Ron's reaction, or lack of, rather, was starting to really worry her.

"I'm not any good at keeping things from you two." She directed this latter comment to Ron.

"Ignorance would be preferable in this case," Ron finally muttered. At least he had stopped pacing. He pulled a chair out and slumped into it.

Harry drummed his fingers on the table. "Have you told Ginny?"

"No, not yet."

"Don't tell her," Ron added. "She'll just die."

Harry snorted. "She will not. She'll take the news better than us. I should tell you that we did suspect you were seeing a Slytherin, but we assumed it was Zabini," he informed.

Hermione's eyebrows disappeared into her fringe. "_Blaise_? What on earth made you think it was Blaise?"

Harry sounded incredulous when he responded. "The same reasons why we would never have guessed it was Malfoy! Because you _like_ Zabini and you _hate_ Malfoy."

"I never hated him, Harry."

"Yes, well that slap you gave him in third year could have fooled us," muttered Harry.

"Things were different then."

"How much different? I'd like to slap Malfoy at least once a week, myself."

Hermione ignored that. She turned her focus to Ron. "Out with it Weasley."

Ron obliged her. "Have you gone insane?" His voice had climbed an entire octave. "This is Draco Malfoy we're talking about. He's scum!"

Hermione sighed. This, she was expecting. "I take it you don't approve, then?"

"No, I don't bloody approve!" he roared. "Have you forgotten that his father tried to kill us?"

"Keep it down!" Harry hissed.

"Draco is not his father! I wish everyone would stop harping on about that!"

"Oh, it's Draco now is it?"

"Well they _are_ married," Harry felt the need to point out. He then wished he hadn't.

Ron stood. "I think I'm going to be sick…."

Hermione glared at him. "Where are you going? For God's sake, just sit down will you? There's more I need to tell you!" For a moment, it looked like he would leave after all, but then he sat, folded his arms and stared at her.

"Why him?" Harry asked.

She was going to tell them why, but then stopped. She had been in enough arguments with Ron, especially, to know when he wasn't going to be receptive to logic.

"Do the two of you really think you're in a frame of mind to listen to that answer? I didn't come here to be shamed. I came here because I need your _help_."

"And you'll always have it," Harry assured, more quietly. "What is it? The way you sounded, I didn't think it had anything to do with Malfoy's bedside manner."

She blushed. "No, of course not."

"Are you in danger?" Harry asked. His green eyes, always the most compelling thing about him, felt like they were boring into her skull. Abruptly, he seemed to notice the unnatural intensity of his stare and immediately broke the connection. Hermione knew that his Occlumency abilities sometimes flared up when he was feeling particularly inquisitive.

So _was_ she in danger then?

"Yes," she whispered.

Ron was already nodding his head vigorously. He was also standing again. "Sod it, Harry! We're going to have to talk to him, aren't we? Bloody Seamus and Dean have already left. Who else have we got for backup? We can get Hagrid! You ask Malfoy to meet us outside and-"

Harry had had enough. He yanked him friend down. "Ron, you're giving me a headache. Sit down and shut up."

Hermione gave Ron a look of disgust. "Let me guess. The two of you wouldn't mind it so much if it was Blaise I was seeing? Is that about right?"

"Zabini is different," Harry interjected. "He's not like the rest of them."

"_Rest of them_? Listen to yourselves. This is exactly the kind of thinking that perpetuates inter-house enmity!"

Ron made a choking noise to convey his exasperation. "Oh! Oh and having parents that murder people doesn't perpetuate inter house… em-enmee…" He botched the word.

"That's _enmity_," Hermione assisted, icily. "Want me to spell it for you, Weasley?"

Ron went red. "Being able to spell didn't exactly do much for you when you fell into bed with the spawn of the Devil, did it?!" Ron screeched.

"You don't need to raise your voice to me. I can hear you just fine," Hermione snapped.

"He's obviously not treating you very well. Look at you!" Ron stuck out his palm at her. "You're skin and bones. You barely touch your food these days and you've said barely three words to us since last week!"

Hermione scowled. She could see how hurt Ron was and she understood why, but they were all old enough now to deal with it, damn it.

"Don't tell me 'Mudblood' has become his disgusting little endearment for you?" Ron scoffed.

"Now Ron," Harry began.

"For your information, he hasn't called me that once this year!"

Ron rolled his eyes. "Merlin, give the man a medal!"

Hermione threw her hands up. "I knew you'd be like this! I knew Harry would be shocked, but you! You'd take any excuse to fly off the handle. It was the same when Ginny said she fancied Seamus and he's in Gryffindor."

"It's not the same and you know it! We all know Ginny wants to be with Harry, but Harry's trying to be all noble and not put her at risk, which is more than I can say for you taking off with Malfoy during such…um uncertain times!"

"Oh, for Heaven's sake…" Harry muttered, embarrassed to have his own dirty laundry aired in public.

Hermione shook her head at him. "Nicely done, Ron. I think there was SOMEONE IN HOGMSEADE WHO MIGHT NOT HAVE HEARD YOU!"

"How did you expect us to react?" Ron added. Both he and Hermione were standing a hair's breadth away from each other as they shouted. "It was bad enough when we thought you were off holding hands with cold-fish Zabini! I mean, that sort of made sense. You could discuss 'Hogwarts, A History' until you turn blue in the face! But this! IT'S MALFOY WE'RE TALKING ABOUT! HERMIONE, HIS FATHER KILLED PEOPLE!"

"DON'T SHOUT AT ME, RONALD!"

Harry hurriedly shushed them. He could hear approaching footsteps and assumed it was Madam Pince investigating what the screaming was about. He also noted that Hermione was close to tears.

"Ron, calm down!"

Ron whirled on Harry. "No, I'm not going to calm down and _you_, Harry, are obviously mental to sit there and accept this. Tell her to come to her senses!"

Harry also got to his feet. "WILL YOU STOP BEING A JEALOUS GIT FOR ONE SECOND AND LISTEN TO WHAT SHE WAS ABOUT TO TELL US!"

"I can't believe I'm hearing this…" Ron backed away from Harry as if he were unclean. "You've both lost it. My best friend in bed with a Malfoy! Mum's going to be in a state when she finds out. How convenient that you happen to be friends with Harry Potter and the son of the Minister for Magic. That's it, isn't it? Of course it is! How do you know he's not just pumping you for-"

It was Hermione's expression that gave Ron pause. She was staring over Ron's shoulder, looking stricken.

There were tears running down her face. Ron knew he should have felt bad about this, but things had gone too far now.

"Weasley," Draco said, with all the warmth of an arctic breeze in December, "if you _dare_ to finish that insult, please know that I'm going to do my utmost to beat you to a bloody pulp."

Ron whirled around. He seemed at a complete loss for words to find the topic of their conversation standing directly in front of him. But then, a hard glint came to his eyes.

"Malfoy, I'd offer you my sympathies over the death of your mum, but that would only work if I felt sorry about it."

Harry said a foul word. Hermione gasped.

Draco smiled.

"Thank you _so much_," he announced_._ And then he punched Ron in the face.


	38. Chapter 38

**Chapter Thirty-Eight**

Everything seemed to happen all at once.

Harry vaulted the table, either to go to Ron's aid or to break up the fight. Hermione rushed forward to assist him, but was sharply told by Harry to keep away, lest she take an elbow to the face.

He probably should have followed his own advice.

Ron, having attended the Weasley Family School of Scrapping, had only stared at Draco in dumbfounded amazement for a moment before he retaliated with a hard shove to the chest. Or at least, attempted to.

He was half a head taller than Draco and had a longer reach, but even so, it soon became apparent that he was not quite as quick.

Draco sidestepped him, which meant that Ron's shove met thin air and he unfortunately collided into Harry, who was unintentionally clothes-lined.

"Ron, you git," Harry wheezed from the floor, massaging his throat.

Ron turned, growled at Draco with renewed ferocity and made to tackle him around his midsection, but Harry intervened by sticking his foot out. Ron tripped, fell forward with a great deal of flailing arms and would have violently clipped his chin on the edge of the table, had Draco not pulled it out of Ron's way at the last second.

Hermione's wand hovered over the chaos. She couldn't decide between Stunning them or hosing water over them.

And then Madam Pince turned up.

**

Half an hour later, the three boys (two resigned, one unwilling) were seated with Ginny in the Great Hall, having been dispatched by Madam Pince from the Library with extreme prejudice.

The Great Hall was empty save for a Hufflepuff third year who had been reading the day's paper at his House table and humming a Weird Sisters tune. He clutched his copy of the Prophet tightly to his chest when he spotted Ron, having already lost the previous day's edition to the Gryffindor prefect.

"Private conversation. Rack off," Ron said to the unfortunate child.

Harry gave the startled boy a kindly look to compensate for the lad's interrupted peace. The boy blushed and then continued on his way, smiling slightly.

Such was Harry's appeal.

Ginny listened, her brown eyes enormous, as Harry relayed Hermione's news, with no help whatsoever from an indifferent-looking Draco. The boys looked a mess.

Harry was his usual dishevelled self, but had undone the top buttons of his shirt and was rubbing at his neck. Draco's school tie was hanging out of his trouser pocket and had looked distinctly wrung out. His white school shirt was completely untucked and there were buttons missing. The worst was Ron, however, who sported a black eye (it was red, going on purple) and a rip in the sleeve of his shirt.

Harry felt decidedly odd telling Ginny such personal information about Hermione, with Draco sitting across from them. Malfoy had his arms folded and a let's-see-how-you-handle-this sneer on his pale face, but Harry managed the story without too much throat clearing.

The youngest Weasley paid attention and did not interrupt. Occasionally, she would glance at Draco, as if to make sure he was indeed sitting there with them at Gryffindor table and was not merely a figment of her imagination.

Draco and Ron were still staring daggers at each other.

"Where's Hermione now?" Ginny asked, after Harry was finished.

"Gone to the kitchens to get some ice." Harry cast a surreptitious look at Ron's rapidly swelling, right eye.

"Does it hurt much?" Ginny inquired of her brother. She didn't sound particularly sympathetic.

Ron scowled at Draco. "No, because he hits like a girl."

Ginny snorted. "Last time I hit you, you almost cried."

"That was three years ago, if you'll recall. And you didn't hit me in the face."

"It was inexcusable, what you said to him," Ginny frowned at Ron. "Mum would be appalled."

Mention of the 'm' word didn't go down well. Harry looked uncomfortable. Ron looked somewhat contrite, while Draco looked... Ginny stared at him beadily. Draco looked bored. She wondered if that was what passed for angry when it came to him.

It had taken less time than she would have thought, for her to digest the stunning news. Oh, a part of her wanted to slap both hands over her mouth, run to find Hermione and demand details.

Harry hadn't been big on details, which was just as well because he wasn't very good at remembering any. He was more of a 'vague overview' sort of person.

Ginny knew full well what Malfoy was capable of – school gossip was very specific about his reputation - but it was something else to know that Hermione had a whole other risk-taking side to her.

"So why _did_ you marry her?" It suddenly seemed odd that no one had asked this question before. It took a girl to ask it, Ginny supposed.

Draco gave her his trademark look of disdain. There was a liberal amount of threat in there as well. It was always a tiny bit unnerving when Malfoy looked a person straight in the eyes, which he was most definitely doing now. He had beautiful eyes, but they were armour plated. Ginny was too curious to feel uncomfortable though.

"Well?" she prodded.

"I think we've covered the part about it being a mistake."

"Sleeping with her could be labelled a mistake. Getting married and tattooed seems a bit excessive…"

A muscle in his jaw twitched. "Did you miss the part about us being violently drunk?"

Ron snorted. "So what? From what I hear, you and your lot do that every other weekend. It's common knowledge Hermione can't hold her liquor at all. You had to have at least guessed that."

"Are you saying that what happened was completely my fault?" Draco asked, eyeballing Ron something fierce.

"It was your bloody fault," Harry pointed out. "You took advantage of her."

"_I_ took-" Draco sputtered. He wished he still had the scratches on his back and the marks on his neck from their first night together, to show them. Her friends seemed determined to assign Granger the role of 'victim' in the whole sordid affair.

Ron suddenly looked like he wanted to finish the punch-up, after all. "She's obviously the innocent party in all of this. Didn't you say you had a pair of angel wings on your back? _Angel_ wings, Malfoy."

Ginny brightened. "Oh, can I see it?"

"No," snapped Harry and Ron, at the same time.

"They don't have to be angel wings, per se. Lots of things have…wings…" Draco knew he sounded like a moron, but he couldn't help it.

"And Hermione's got a dragon in a rather sensitive area," Ginny surmised. "Bit telling isn't it?"

"What is? The dragon or where the dragon is located?" Draco couldn't resist asking her. Her brother was doing a splendid impersonation of a Muggle fire-hydrant.

"I'm not sure I approve of where this conversation is heading…" Ron muttered.

Draco looked amused. "I don't think you'd approve of where the dragon is heading on Granger's thigh either,"

Ron sent Harry an imploring look. "Harry, can you please shut him up?"

"I'm not the one interrogating him about the damned tattoos!"

Ginny was happy to ignore Ron and Harry. "Did you know what Fida Mia was before you got tattooed?"

Draco was about to say yes, he did have a vague idea, but then he changed his mind. That would sound even more incriminating to them. He directed his next comment to Ron.

"I see that your sister suffers from the same affliction as Granger."

"And what affliction might that be?" Ron asked cautiously.

"_Questions_. Now, would you Weasleys mind pissing off while I speak to Potter?"

Ginny didn't care for that suggestion. "Hermione is my friend too, "she sniffed. "I'm staying for this discussion."

"This might not be a conversation for persons with delicate sensibilities."

"I don't have delicate sensibilities," she argued.

Draco smiled humourlessly. "I was referring to your brother."

"Tosser," Ron spat.

"Weasley," Draco insulted back.

Ginny looked to Harry for help. "Can we just hurry up and do this before Hermione comes?"

Harry thought for a moment. After some time, he said, "I can't make her spend the whole summer with me at Grimmauld Place. She'd want to see her parents."

"Grimmauld Place," Draco repeated the familiar-sounding name. "Where have I heard that?"

"It's the former Black residence, if that helps."

"Sirius Black's place you mean?"

Harry's eyes darkened a little. "Yeah. That's right." He wondered if Malfoy knew it had been his aunt who had killed Sirius.

"Damn it, Potter. You tell her to do something and then you make her do it!"

Harry perked up a little at Draco's almost tangible frustration. "It might have slipped your notice, Malfoy, but the girl has her own mind."

"This recruitment drive thing," Ginny interrupted. "What exactly does the Ministry want you to do about it?"

"Given the circles I move in, the Ministry seems to think that I might stand a chance at coming into contact with the Recruiter, or get as close as I can to identifying the person," Draco supplied. "It would make sense, except for the part where I'm not at all interested in doing it."

"Bloody hell," Ron said. "And you're thinking that this has something to do with Tonks going missing then?"

The enormity of Draco's predicament was becoming more and more apparent.

The topic of Tonk's disappearance had a sobering effect over the group. "Yes, that and the recent killing in Knockturn Alley yesterday evening. It should be in this morning's news by now."

Ron craned his head around to the Hufflepuff table. "Damn! Where's that boy gone with the paper?"

"You told him to get lost, remember?" Ginny reminded, dryly.

"How are you supposed to identify this person if you have no idea where to start?"

"No idea, Potter," Draco admitted. "But I'll set up a suggestion box. If you have any ideas, feel free to slip something inside it."

"I don't like this at all. Dad must be desperate if he's resorted to using Malfoy like that," Ginny said to Ron.

"Dad's motives are not up for discussion." Ron's voice was brittle. It was a long standing argument between the siblings.

"They should be! He is only in office as long as this state of emergency continues. It's an _elected_ office, Ron. He has a mandate from the community."

Further discussion was forestalled by the appearance of Hermione at the Hall entrance, looking distinctly harried as she carried two kitchen towels packed with ice. She walked toward them and nodded at Ginny.

"Hi, you okay?" asked Ginny.

Hermione found a smile. "I'm fine. They've told you, then?"

"That they did," Ginny said gently. "Come and sit down."

"I will in a minute." Hermione frowned at Ron's already swollen, closed eye as she placed the bag of shaved ice none to gently, against his injury.

Draco didn't hear what the friends said, for they spoke in whispers, but he roughly caught the word 'idiot' and then Ron's resigned sigh.

"Ouch! _Easy_," he hissed at her. He glanced up at Draco during this less than tender treatment.

Draco was pleased that the other boy could not seem to hold his gaze for very long.

He continued to stare at the pair, narrowing his eyes as Hermione's hand pressed over Ron's, holding the ice pack to his face. She was glaring down at him like an annoyed mother hen. Her hair was unbound that morning; a riot of fat, coffee-coloured curls that fell forward against Ron's forehead and nose, as she fussed over him. He made no move to back away, either.

It wasn't entirely irrational for Draco to feel jealous, seeing as Weasley and Granger had a history together.

'History' being the operative word. Still, he couldn't shake the unpleasant feeling.

Draco's irritation disappeared however, when she finished with Ron and then walked all the way around the long table, to him.

She sat next to him, took his left hand, placed it in her lap and put the second ice pack against his red knuckles.

He found himself staring down at her small hand wrapped around his larger fist, for a minute or so.

"How are you?" Draco blurted, gruffly. He had no idea where the question had come from. He had wondered it and then had voiced it.

Hermione gave him a searching look. Her eyes hid nothing. She was so ridiculously easy to read. "I should be asking _you_ that question. Did you sleep alright?" she whispered. Her thumb was stroking his knuckles.

"Yes," he lied.

Ron, Harry and Ginny were gawking at them. Ron and Harry look flummoxed, but Ginny looked thoughtful.

Hermione shifted in her seat, suddenly aware of their audience. "What's this about me staying at Grimmauld Place?"

"Malfoy seems to think you'd be safer there. Or at the Burrow," Harry told her. "I happen to agree with him," he added, when he saw her small pout.

"That's unfortunate," Hermione said, in a very Head Girl tone of voice. "I'll visit you both, but there's no way I'm going to be cooped up at Harry's or at the Burrow, for the entire summer." She turned to Draco. "I'm going to help you whether you like it or not."

"You will not! You will keep your distance from me until this is settled!"

"And how long do you think that will take?" she retorted.

"Actually, I'd like to talk to Malfoy about this, if you don't mind," Harry announced.

The other three stared at him. "_Alone_. Which means you Weasleys and Hermione, piss off," Harry expounded, good naturedly.

Ginny got the message. She whacked her brother between his shoulder blades and stood up. "Right. We'll be in the Common Room. Come on Hermione."

It was clear that neither Ron nor Hermione were keen on leaving, but after a pause, they did as Harry requested.

As soon as they were gone, Harry turned to Draco. His green eyes were thoughtful.

"Come on, Malfoy. Let's get some air."

**

Harry had meant that literally.

They didn't bother Summoning their brooms. The school brooms were slow and cantankerous and slightly mouldy around the handles, but they worked and that was all that mattered.

Harry felt instantly lighter in spirit as soon as his feet were off the pitch. No doubt Malfoy was the same. It really was a nice day to be outdoors. They paused some hundred meters over the ground, where the air was cool and dry. Draco did a three hundred and sixty degree, backward spin, in an effort to unstick his broom's staggered steering. It wobbled the whole time.

Harry watched him. If he really had to suppose, Harry would probably suppose that Malfoy was good looking. It wasn't something one heterosexual boy tended to notice about another boy, but Harry was keen to pick out what it was that Hermione found appealing about Malfoy.

The longer he thought about it, the fewer possibilities arose. Apart from him being sort of good looking, of course. Funny, Harry would never have pegged Hermione as type of girl who fell for just a pretty face.

Malfoy's hair was long, though not as long as Ron's. But where Ron's long hair could best be described as shaggy and endearingly unkempt (this was one young admirer's description of it), Draco's was….elegantly untamed. He probably spent a fortune on haircuts.

Harry grimaced. He was starting to sound like a Witch Weekly caption.

Malfoy certainly knew how to wear clothes, too. Be it Quidditch leathers or their school uniform. There was a certain lazy confidence in how he carried himself. Like he didn't know what it meant, to feel awkward, and didn't care for it in other people.

That annoyed Harry. It was unfair for Malfoy to be a teenager and not experience teenage insecurities.

Presently, Draco swung his leg over his broom such that he was no long straddling it, but sitting across it. They continued to hover in silence.

It didn't matter how good the bastard was on a broom though. If there was one thing Harry was absolutely sure of, it was that he, Harry, was _better_.

Love of Quidditch was not enough to base a true friendship on, however. Harry was very aware that he would never come to like Draco, no matter what the boy meant to Hermione.

Some histories could not be overlooked.

"Thanks for helping Ron earlier. I don't think he noticed he was going to smack his face on that table before you dragged it away."

Draco snorted. "That's probably because the table didn't have a pair of tits."

Harry grinned. Ron wasn't going to get any help from Harry in that regard. "Uh yeah, you've noticed that have you?"

"Did you ask me up here to talk about Weasley's less than subtle ogling?"

"You're thinking of tracking down the people responsible for killing your mum. "I'd like to help."

"Thanks, Potter. But I think you have your hands tied dealing with the Dark Fuckwit responsible for killing your _own_ mother."

Malfoy's brand of directness was always startling. It took a moment for Harry to re-gain his emotional equilibrium after that comment. "When you look at it that way, we're basically after the same people, unless you think it wasn't Death Eaters who killed your mother?"

"I'm almost certain it's Voldemort's people, but that doesn't mean we're joining forces or anything quite that sugary. I'm confident I'll sort something out, but until then, just keep Granger out of my business."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "She's not a possession you can put away when you're too busy to handle her, Malfoy."

Draco scowled. His broom started vibrating and he absently stilled it with his hand. His voice was sinister when he next spoke. "If you're not going to help, then fuck off. I'm not wasting more time explaining this situation again. I won't have her distracting me from what I need to do."

"Oh, I understand the situation! But I think you need to sort out what she means to you before you go on this quest, because if you succeed, you're not going to be the same when you come back. And it might be helpful for her to know how long she has to wait for you."

"_She doesn't have to do a bloody thing_." Draco hissed.

There was something in Draco's eyes that made Harry's blood run cold. Quite suddenly, Harry recognised Draco's motives, because they also happened to be Harry's motives. It wasn't a case of 'when' he was coming back. 'If' was more to the point.

"You don't think you'll be coming back, is that it?" Harry asked, with undisguised amazement at his epiphany.

"This conversation is over," Draco announced and then turned his broom around to leave.

Harry darted forward to block him. "I know what you're thinking. What the hell do I know, right? My own love life's a mess."

"If you mean that business with Alice Crowley from Hufflepuff earlier in the month, then that's something of an understatement, Potter."

Harry flushed. He took hold of Draco's broom handle when it looked like the other boy would take off. "Look, I'm in love with Ginny. But to be with her would expose her to the type of life I'm thinking you don't wish for Hermione. I'm not made of stone, however. Alice didn't have any expectations from our relationship, however brief and uneventful that it was. It would have been _safe_ for me to be with her, you see."

"Why are you telling me all this?" Draco whispered.

"Because I've just realised you're not the completely selfish bastard I thought you were." Harry paused for effect before continuing. "And I think _you_ need to realise it too."

Harry was convinced then, that he was going to be insulted, ridiculed and scoffed at. None of these things happened. Malfoy had no ammunition.

"If you care for her, keep her away from me," a frowning Draco told Harry, without looking at him.

And then he left.


	39. Chapter 39

**Chapter Thirty-Nine**

Goyle stood at the head of the dungeon corridor and suffered through an attack of second thoughts.

He was not supposed to be there. In fact, he was supposed to be three floors above, eradicating a nest of doxies that had taken up residence in a rafter and had so far been hurling suspect 'debris' at any one who happened to walk into the room.

That was in addition to _biting_, which was arguably the more usual doxy pastime.

They were in the north of Wales, in the remains of some old Roman fort and some later wizard-lordling's attempt at a castle. A magical castle, of course. Blaise had not revealed to Goyle the exact location of the Death Eater barracks until they had arrived via Portkey from Hogwarts, just after sunrise on Sunday morning.

There was a particular tree in the Dark Forest, located ten minutes outside of the Anti-Apparition Boundary that protected Hogwarts Castle. The funny thing was that Goyle would have walked right past the rowan, not noticing that there was anything even there to gawk at, had Blaise not stopped him and pointed it out.

"Beautiful, isn't she?"

The tree was the fucking creepiest thing he had ever seen in his life.

After that, it was impossible to _not_ notice the rowan. It sat there, almost throbbing with dark magic and ill-begotten vitality. On a lower branch, there hung a hammered iron chain with a gold coin attached to it.

Blaise had grinned and explained that the coin was their Portkey to the barracks.

Ah, so _that_ was how Blaise had been travelling back and forth with such apparent ease.

The 'barracks', or so Blaise called it, looked a bit sad to be honest. Goyle inquired as to how Voldemort had found the place. Rumour had it that Tom Riddle had accidentally walked right smack into the eastern wall of the old castle one summer's day in the mid 1960s, when the building's aging, original Concealment Charms finally gave way, revealing a dilapidated, but potentially useful hideout.

There were fourteen rooms at the barracks, spread across three floors. The structure might have fallen down years ago if it weren't mostly made of stone. Oh, the walls were crumbling in some areas and there was still a gaping, man-sized hold in the dining hall, but this was the type of place that typified the 'used to' portion in the Phrase, 'they don't make things like they used to'.

The stone foundations were rock solid, pun intended.

The steps leading up to the second floor were rotten right through, however. So much so that Goyle genuinely feared for his life when he first used them. He held on to his wand the whole time, just in case a quick Leviosa was needed should the wood give way under his considerable weight.

There were two subterranean floors to the old keep, one of which housed the dungeons and also a potions workshop that hadn't been touched since the seventies.

You could tell from the awful orange and lime green wallpaper.

Regrettably, upon closer inspection, the doxy debris from the top floor turned out to be about two centuries' worth of faeces. It was unanimously decided that the nests would have to go.

On the off-chance Voldemort _did_ visit the hideout, it would simply _not_ do for their Dark Lord and Master to be, for lack of a better word, pelted with shit.

Spending an afternoon doing what amounted to household duties was fine. Goyle would clean and prepare and do whatever other handyman jobs they set him to. He was not yet suited for fieldwork, but then Blaise had assured that he needn't be.

They would kill him if they found out what he was currently planning. And on his first day on the job, to boot. It wouldn't be a dramatic, quick, Avada Kedavra either. There would be a lot of pain, a lot of screaming too, probably. It would be the type of sticky death Pansy had warned him about.

Pansy.

Just thinking about her made him want to bang his head against a wall and re-think what the hell he was going to do.

_One thing at a time_, he reminded himself. He was no multi-tasker and he needed to focus if he was going to pull this off without getting himself killed.

Goyle scrubbed a hand over his bad haircut (he had asked for a 'number two', the hairdresser must have mistaken this for a 'negative-two') and walked quickly to the Auror's cell.

Nymphadora was her name. He had heard Bob the Dungeon Custodian say it. The custodian's name wasn't really 'Bob'. He was hired help from the local area and had the misfortune of having a six-syllable name, in which the letters 'x', 'l', 't' and 'c' featured prominently.

Cursed Welsh names were impossible to pronounce. So mostly they just called him 'Bob'.

The lady Auror didn't look like a 'Nymphadora', for that matter. Goyle had no idea what a Nymphadora was, but he imagined a fluffier, blonder individual and a great deal of flirty giggling.

She certainly hadn't been in a giggling mood the last time Goyle had seen her.

That was expected given that he had knocked her unconscious. It was a terrible Thursday evening, by all accounts.

Goyle had arrived ten minutes late to his outdoor meeting with Blaise. The original plan had been for Blaise to take Goyle to the barracks. Goyle turned up just in time to find the Auror about to take a Stupefied Blaise into Ministry custody.

Only Blaise was _Draco_ at the time, which added to Goyle's complete confusion because he hadn't realised that Blaise was a metamorphmagus. The bastard had neglected to mention that, didn't he?

There had been an altercation earlier, Goyle was later informed, and a male Auror had been unfortunately Portkeyed to his death.

Blaise recited these events in a detached voice full of irritation at his own carelessness. He felt he ought to have morphed into someone more benign than Draco Malfoy.

If so, the Aurors might have let him pass with a warning. Goyle was inclined to agree. Being Draco was a lot like wearing a big sign on your head that said, "HEY! HERE! LOOK AT ME!"

It wasn't Draco's fault he was the sort to attract attention wherever he went. Ok, well it was his fault when he was behaving badly, which frankly, was quite often…but that was part and parcel of being a Malfoy. Idly, Goyle wondered how often Blaise walked around Hogwarts dressed in someone else's skin.

It was a terribly handy skill to possess. No wonder Voldemort was thrilled to have him.

Blaise's identity may have still been a mystery to the Light, but the lady Auror had seen Goyle's face. It was too much of a risk to let her escape at the time. And so, Goyle had knocked her over the head and then went into a panic, convinced that he had killed the woman.

He did have one hell of a Beater's arm, after all.

A groggy Blaise had eventually awakened. He crawled over, glared icicles at Goyle, as if the whole thing was _his_ bloody fault and then announced that the Auror was still very much alive (but probably wouldn't be for very long).

Thus, was Nymphadora Tonks taken prisoner by a junior Death Eater Recruiter and his brand, spanking new Recruitee. The whole thing could have gone much worse for them, had Goyle not done what he did.

"Your first captive," Blaise had beamed at him in a macabre, proud father sort of way.

The incident had cemented Blaise's previously shaky faith in Goyle's ability to join the Death Eaters.

He was officially _in_

Blaise had since returned to Hogwarts, ostensibly for a final visit. That was good because it meant that Goyle had less to worry about. But then, there was still Travers and Wormtail somewhere in the upper floors, readying the place for the arrival of Bellaxtrix Lestrange.

Wormtail, Travers, Bellatrix…the Dark Lord. It was odd to associate these people in any context involving himself. Goyle had grown up hearing about them of course. To a small boy of no particular importance, they had been big, important names.

Goyle had been startled to discover that Blaise was not the only Recruiter. There were two others, each operating at Beauxbatons Academy and Durmstrang Institute. It was risky but clever to place Recruiters within the schools. What better way to identify candidates?

They were expecting two new applicants from Beauxbatons and six from Durmstrang. Goyle wondered who the Durmstrang Recruiter was because six was an impressive number. But then Blaise mentioned that Bellatrix was there to cull them.

Voldemort wanted quality not quantity. They would not be presented to the Dark Lord until they first passed muster with Bellatrix.

"What happens if she doesn't like any of us?" Goyle had asked Blaise.

"You die."

Well of course you died. Goyle had felt silly for asking. Bellatrix wasn't likely to send the failed candidates off with a _'thank you for your application, but all vacancies are currently filled'_ letter and a goodwill handshake…

His bout of second thoughts didn't last for much longer. It took another minute for Goyle to convince himself that there really was no one coming down the stairs to check on the Auror. At least not right at that moment. Bob was at the village to buy food, but would be back soon.

It was now or never.

Swallowing the ball of fear that had lodged in his throat, he hurried down the corridor and stopped at the door of the Auror's cell. She was in the second cell closest to the exit, so it wasn't a very long walk.

He slid open the slot gingerly and peered inside. It was dark.

"Psst!"

There was no response. Did something already happen to her? Goyle tried again.

"Psst! You there! Draco's cousin!"

Aurors were well trained. He'd forgotten about that fact. A hand darted out from the darkness beyond the slot and clamped around Goyle's thick neck.

She had an impressive grip. For a woman.

"You're the one that hit me," she said.

He could see part of her face peering at him through the gap. Her light brown eyes were spitting fire at him. She looked a bit worse for wear, which was expected. Her lips were slightly chapped and her previously blueberry-coloured hair had faded to a lacklustre lavender. They hadn't given anything to eat or drink for a day or so.

Goyle pulled away, coughed a little and glared at her. "Yes, I know. I'm here to rescue you!"

This revelation, to his surprise, did not reduce her to a quivering mass of thankfulness. Goyle was reminded once again, that he seemed to know absolutely nothing about women.

She looked sceptical. "Here I am praying for a bit of assistance and the Powers That Be decide to send me an enormously large waste of time. Piss of, tubby." The ungrateful bint gave him a haughty up-down look.

"You don't understand. I'm here to _help_!" Also, he was not 'tubby'. He was big boned, damn it.

"And how do I know you're not bluffing? Why would you suddenly help me?"

Goyle felt he really should have expected that question. _Obviously_ she wasn't going to trust him. "I guess you won't know if I'm bluffing or not. Look, I'm friends with Draco, alright? You're Draco's cousin and so I'm going to get you out. What happened earlier was unavoidable, but I'm here to fix things. Is that enough of an explanation?"

She didn't immediately answer him. "It's Goyle, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Fine, then let me out." She backed away from the door to give him room for whatever it was he was about to do.

Goyle shook his head. "No, I don't mean right now. We can't right now because they'll realise it's me! I've been instructed to bring you upstairs at a specific time. When that happens, you need to make it look like you struggled, overpowered me and then escaped. Or else it's my life on the line," he added, just in case she assumed there would be no risk for him.

He passed a narrow slab of stone through the slot in the door. It was the same type of ubiquitous limestone that made up eighty percent of the barracks and Tonk's cell. It was reasonable to assume that a similar sized chunk could have broken off from the walls of the cell.

She accepted the stone and then there was silence. He wondered if she was expecting him to pass her something else.

"What the hell is this supposed to be?"

Goyle thought it was obvious. "Your _weapon_. You hit me over the head with it."

"That's your plan?" she hissed.

He couldn't believe he was being berated by the person whose life he was about to save. Were all women mental? "Can you think of a better one? In a few hours Bellatrix Lestrange is going to _murder_ you. If you'd like to take your chances with her, then go ahead!"

"You seem like a nice enough kid. Why are you joining these people?"

"That's none of your business."

"Leave with me," she suggested. Her face was at the slot again. "I'll make sure they grant you clemency in exchange for information. You obviously know enough about this operation to be of great value to us."

Goyle found his first smile of the day. "Oh, that will happen, just not right now."

The Auror gave him an exasperated stare. "Look, kid, this is one fucked up occupation you've picked for yourself. What if they work out how you've helped me? They'll kill you."

Well duh. He didn't reply. There was no more time. No doubt Bob would be back any minute now.

"I'll come for you later! Just be ready, ok?"

Maybe she thought his plan wasn't going to work, because she didn't thank him when he left.

It was okay. He hadn't been expecting it.

**

Hermione stood outside the Quidditch supply shed, waiting for Draco. She was leaning against the door, ankles and arms crossed, staring seriously at the grass-covered ground. She must have been deep in thought because she didn't hear him approach until he was in front of her.

She blinked up at him, squinting in the bright light.

Sunshine did wonders for her, Draco thought. She was not a creature of thunderstorms and rainy, indoor days, like him. Winter was his favourite season. There was a certain contemplativeness to it. Summer was too brash, spring too optimistic.

Her colouring was all autumn, though. That, he definitely liked.

The summer sunshine added a whiskey-gold hue to her dark hair, highlighting the more pronounced of her curls. She also had a bit more colour to her cheeks now, which was gratifying to see.

"I thought I was going to be waiting a while," she informed him, by way of her second hello for the day. She sounded disgruntled. "Harry's finished with you, then?"

Draco took exception to the insinuation that he had only been allowed to leave when Potter said so. "_We_ were finished, yes." He heaved the broom onto his shoulder and stared meaningfully at the door. She was blocking it.

"Was it a good discussion?" she asked him, not moving from her spot. Her tone was pleasant, but her expression was troubled.

"If by good you mean pointless." Draco reached around her to take hold of the latch and was relieved when she finally stepped aside.

She followed him inside, watching as he replaced the borrowed school broom on an empty hook. When he was done, they stared at each other in the dark and musty shed.

"Was there something else you wanted to talk to me about?"

"Something else?" she echoed. "Forgive me for being a little paranoid about whether you're going to take off for parts unknown without so much as a by your leave. I'm not stupid. I do have an idea what you might be planning. We have…I don't know, _moments_, I suppose. These little snippets of time when I actually believe we understand each other. And then you receive this terrible news about your mum," she added, more softly. "And then we're right back to square one and I feel like running after you, calling out to you to please slow down and walk with me."

She paused to cringe at her choice of metaphor." I have no more pride left, Draco. None! What was left of my pride has since packed its bags and moved to a less stressful environment."

Her outburst didn't particularly startle him, though it seemed to have startled her. She put a hand to her forehead.

"I'm sorry. I'm just sick of worrying. _About us_. Worrying about you is new to me." Her look of sincere exasperation was endearing. "If you haven't noticed, I'm the kind that likes to get involved."

"I gather as much," he muttered. "Look, my mind's not in the best place at the moment…" It was Draco at his most honest and he knew that she knew this. "I need time."

Hermione nodded. "I understand. I really do."

Nothing more was said for a long minute. With a resigned sigh, Hermione turned on her heel to leave.

Something sparked in him. It might have been a small burst of irrational panic at her leaving. Blindly, he grabbed a handful of the back her school blouse and held on.

They must have looked silly, her standing two feet away from him and his hand stretched out between them, holding a fistful of white cotton.

"Hermione…" he said to her back.

"You can let go," she said, her voice hard.

He sounded desperate. "I _can't_. That's my problem, isn't it?"

She refused to be moved. "I want you to take the time you need, but don't give me any more mixed signals. I swear to God, Draco Malfoy, you drive me _insane_."

"I know. Come here."

"No," she snapped. This was followed by a more soft and hopeful, "why?"

Honesty was the policy of the terminally pussy-whipped, Draco thought. "Because I want to kiss you."

She paused. "And then what?"

"And then…and then you can make me give you all the promises you like. Will that make you happy?"

_God, yes!_ "Yes," she breathed, her relief was tangible. She threw herself into his arms.

Draco held her to him. He savoured her warmth, the soft curls under his nose and her arms wound tightly around him. She was shaking and rambling moist words into the base of his neck.

"I know you're off to do whatever you think you have to do, but a mailing address would be nice..."

He sighed.

"A weekly letter would be ideal..."

"Granger, I-"

"Hell, I'd settle for a postcard every month. I'm not fussy," she interrupted, sardonically.

The wet heat of her mouth on his skin was very nice indeed. His pulse raced and then came the familiar sensation of headiness that assailed him every time he touched her like this. She kissed his Adam's Apple and then started nibbling on the fine, white skin above his collarbone.

"Keep doing that and I promise you Potter's going to catch sight of more than just old wood and leather when he opens that door in a minute to return his broom."

Hermione took this as encouragement. She slid her palms up into his hair and tugged his head down to hers. Draco groaned, caught her mouth and ravaged it.

She gave him her tongue to suck on and he did so, before exploring deeper still, tasting the soft, sensitive spots inside her lower lip.

They were both breathing hard. The magnitude of the kiss erased their past and their problems. It was the type of knowing kiss that should never be an end unto itself. It was supposed to be prelude to more.

They weren't quiet, either. They spoke nonsensical, half-formed words designed to comfort and calm but the effect was anything but.

_Everyone ought to know what it felt like to be kissed like this_, Hermione thought, shivering. On the heels of that thought, she idly wondered if it was possible to die from an overdose of goose bumps. He both warmed and chilled her. Her internal thermostat had apparently gone the way of her pride.

Her skirt was bunched up around her thighs. His hands were responsible. They had started at her waist, slipped down to cup her bottom and then dragged her skirt up as they travelled. Hermione edged further up his body, half climbing, aided by his hands sliding under her bottom to support her. She rubbed herself against his hardness, aware that she was still somewhat tender from their night together at Knockturn Alley.

He finished the kiss. It was probably a first for them. The yearning of a kiss ended too abruptly sometimes left a deep emotional itch that stayed with a person. There was none of this now. When the kiss could go no further or take any more from either of them, they stopped. Draco was openly panting as he stared down at her with a look of reverence and wonder that made her heart swell.

"This isn't goodbye," she clarified. For both their benefits. In case he decided to misunderstand.

"No," he agreed. She might not have realised it, but at the moment, he wouldn't have denied her anything.

Hermione put her palms on either side of his face. "You will give me your word that you'll remember to say goodbye. You will at least try to let us help you when we can, whether the Ministry is aware of it or not. And you will, wherever possible, tell me where you are and what you're doing and that your safe. Ok?"

Draco kissed the tip of her nose, her closed eyes, her forehead, her lips. He looked shaken.

"Don't ask this of me...."

"Say you promise!"

"Very well. I promise," he whispered.

Hermione nodded. It was enough for now.

**

It was an hour to lunch time and there was plenty still to be done before Hogwarts closed for the summer the next day, not the least of which was packing up the many belongings in her room.

She would not allow herself to be depressed by that. End of school melancholy had struck her more than two weeks ago and she was over it now. Hogwarts had done its part in raising her. It was time to put all that she had learned to good use in the community. There was the future to look forward to and she was content to know that Draco would feature in it, in one way or another.

Hermione walked back to the Castle after waiting a prudent five minutes for Draco to make his way back first. As Draco had predicted, Harry turned up at the supply shed to return his borrowed school broom and ended up walking with Hermione as far as the foyer. He announced that he was off to speak with Snape and would catch her up on why, later.

If Hermione seemed slightly dazed, he didn't comment. It had been a trying day for everyone.

As she walked past the open doors of the Great Hall, she caught sight of one of two of the few remaining Slytherins who hadn't as yet left for home.

It was the young, fourth year girl that often shadowed Draco. Today, however, she seemed wholly and happily occupied playing chess with the now infamous Tandish Dodders. It was the girl's t-shirt that caught her eye.

The thing was black, only slightly faded, with a bright green and yellow logo that said, 'Nutrisoil Fertilizer'.

Highly curious, Hermione pressed forward.

"Karen, is it?" she inquired of the girl.

She was a pretty, gamine little thing, with a sassy haircut and large, limpid blue eyes. The girl glanced up, though she seemed in no hurry to take her attention away from her game. She tucked her short, dark hair behind her ear and stared coolly at Hermione, no doubt unimpressed that the Head Girl did not know her name.

"Carmen, actually."

"I couldn't help but notice your t-shirt," Hermione began. "You should be in school uniform."

Carmen's stare warmed considerably, despite the reprimand. She puffed her chest out a bit and grinned. "It's my father's latest business venture. You're not going to book me on the last day of school are you?" She inclined her head to the staff tables, where Professor Flitwick and Madam Hooch were sharing a pot of tea.

"_Them_ haven't said anything yet."

Dodders looked up from his chess move and his jam-covered scone. There was a cheeky look on his face.

"Your dad's in the poo business?"

It was apparently a slightly touchy topic with Carmen. She went a bit red. "Yes, well we can't all be as fortunate as to inherit obscene amounts of money from deceased relatives, can we? Besides, it's not a 'business', it's an _empire_."

Dodders shrugged. "Hey, my father is one of those rare types that actually _works_ for a living. At Gringotts," he added, just in case they didn't believe him and wanted to check.

"Why do you ask?" Carmen posed the question to Hermione.

"Oh, nothing really. Just thought I saw that logo on a um, student not too long ago." She didn't think it wise or necessary to mention Draco's cap. The mystery was solved.

"Really?" Carmen burst into delighted laughter. "I give out a handful of promotional merchandise to a few privileged housemates every year as a lark. No one wears it of course." She continued to smile, indicating this was both expected and accepted.

"I didn't get anything," informed Dodders.

Carmen a waved a hand dismissively. "That was before I liked you." She turned her attention back to Hermione. "I do hope Madam Sprout saw the logo. Father's been trying to land the Hogwarts account for some time now and Hagrid's still insisting on importing inferior dragon's dung from Romania. The stuff costs less yes, but they do this thing to it that sucks out half the nutrients-"

Dodders put down his half eaten scone. "Can we stop talking about fertilizer? I'm having my breakfast and it's your move."

"It's brunch dear. Breakfast was hours ago." Carmen fiddled with her snoring Bishop for a minute before making her move. That's check, Tandish."

"It can't be check!" Dodders wailed. "It's only been eight moves!"

While Dodders grumbled and examined the board, Carmen said to Hermione, "By the way, you haven't seen our Head Boy around, have you? He confiscated a packet of dung bombs from me a month ago and I mean to have them back before he leaves."

Hermione frowned. "No, actually I haven't seen him since…well, the last two days."

Which was odd, come to think of it. She was sure Blaise hadn't left school yet because McGonagall would have surely told her. Also, Blaise, unlike Draco, usually had no problems informing her when was thinking of taking a leave of absence.

"He's around," Hermione assured. It _was_ a big Castle.

Carmen wrinkled her nose. "If you see him, please tell him I'd like my dung bombs back. I have three brothers and it's going to be a long summer, you see."

The corner of Hermione's mouth quirked upwards slightly. "I'll tell him."

Before she left for Gryffindor Tower, Hermione sent an acknowledging wave to Professor Flitwick and Madam Hooch, both of whom were scrutinising the Daily Prophet with grim expressions.


	40. Chapter 40

**A/N:**

**Sorry if it's been annoying receiving huge blocks of chapter update emails from ffnet. I'm trying to upload the rest of the story as quickly as possible. I think there might also be some problems with the line breaks. Thanks for the continuing feedback. You guys are awesome. **

**Chapter Forty**

Pansy had never seen Draco so angry.

It wasn't exactly the anger itself that was surprising, it was _how_ he was angry. Draco had never been a screamer or a ranter. His anger was cold; consisting of chilling looks and seething tongue-lashings that had been known to reduce classmates to meek silence.

He never stewed or simmered, but usually went from normal to icy in whatever short time in took to annoy him.

Not so that evening. He had started at dumbfounded and had taken the express synaptic route directly to bloody furious.

His fury washed over her like a scorching, desert wind. It took a lot to rattle her, but Draco's reaction was enough. She stammered through her explanation, flinching every time his molten grey stare burned into her retinas. When it was done, she stood beside his desk, hands clasped in front of her because she didn't what else to do with them.

There was a wretchedly long silence. For the first time in their long history together, Pansy was actually afraid of him.

"Draco, I know I-"

"_Shut up_."

The loathing in his voice brought tears to her eyes. She had to resist the urge to take a step back as he rose to his feet and paced in front of his bed. Previously, he had been sitting on the mattress with his head in his hands.

"I think I get the gist of it," he muttered, more to himself than for her benefit. "You're going to answer a few questions for me, Pansy dear, and then you're going to pretend as if you never told me."

He waited until she was looking at him before he continued.

"Go downstairs for dinner. The old man's back and he has apparently decreed that the few remaining students dine at the one table for the final meal of the year." He paused to sneer a little at the thought. "If anyone asks where I, Goyle or Blaise are, you will tell them that we're boycotting dinner due to this new and unacceptable seating arrangement. That is as much as you know. If they send someone to look for us, so be it. After dinner, you will lock yourself in your room and _you will not open it for anyone_ except me, Professor Snape or the Headmaster. Parkinson, are you following me?"

"Yes."

"Once you are home tomorrow, you will be the responsibility of your parents. I daresay if your father manages to stay sober for five minutes, he'd be appalled to see what a complete idiot his daughter is."

Any other day, any other situation, she would have flayed him with her tongue for saying what he had just said.

Not so that evening. All that escaped her was yet another, small, "Yes."

"Now, a few questions." He sat down again, looking like his anger had sapped his energy. "Where did Zabini take Goyle?"

She hesitated before speaking. "I don't know exactly where they were supposed to go, but I know how Blaise gets there."

Draco eyed her with a mixture of curiosity and foreboding. "And how the hell do you know that?"

Pansy didn't look at him anymore because she didn't think she could bear the censure in his eyes. "Goyle wasn't Blaise's first choice, you see….I was."

"You?" Draco snorted. He turned his head and laughed.

She was angry enough that she forgot she had been cowering. "Yes, me! Is that so hard to imagine?"

Draco gave her a thoughtful look. And then, very calmly, he picked up a thick, hardbound Arithmancy text from the bedside table and hurled it at the mirror over his desk. It shattered. Glass littered the desk, smaller shards bounced off the table and sprinkled across the floor.

Pansy shrieked and backed up against the door.

"Is Voldemort so desperate that he's willing to take on seventeen year old girls whose nerves can't even stand up to _that_?" Draco asked, very quietly.

Pansy brushed away a tear that had escaped her self-control. "I don't presume to know what Voldemort is thinking, but I can speak for Blaise. He saw potential in me."

Draco shook his head. "He saw someone who was willing to be taken in by his drivel. You don't have potential, Pansy. You have a need to be shepherded." Draco gave her a pitying look. "And you do know what that makes you?"

She closed her eyes. "I hate you right now."

"Good. Where did he take you?"

"There's this...a tree in the Dark Forest. The Death Eaters gave Blaise a Portkey. I didn't see what it was, but I know that's how he's been going back and forth. He took me there on the day I was to visit their hiding place. I changed my mind…"

When Pansy opened her eyes, Draco was standing before her. He gripped her shoulders and shook her lightly. She wasn't afraid this time because there was nothing but worry in his eyes.

"Do you have any idea what he could have done to you when you refused to go along?"

"It occurred to me, yes! I can't explain it, I panicked! I didn't want to go through with it. The only choice I had was to convince him that I wasn't going to be a good candidate, that I'd ruin things for him when I eventually messed up. He knows that Goyle has feelings for me. I said it should be one or the other. Not the both of us joining because we'd…distract each other. Draco, he believed me! So you see, it's my fault Greg ended up going in my place." She choked out a sob.

Draco must have decided that he had punished her enough, because he hugged her. She squeezed her eyes shut against his chest.

"Goyle would have gone anyway. I doubt you could have changed his mind," he told her in a resigned voice.

They were discussing the topic of choice, Pansy realised. Or the illusion of choice anyway.

Sometimes it sucked to be in Slytherin.

She released a long, pent up breath. "Is there really something else Goyle or I could have done different? If Blaise trusted us enough to tell us what he is, he was expecting our compliance. Who is to say he wouldn't have killed us out of hand for refusing straight away?"

"When did Blaise tell you he was Recruiting for Voldemort?" Draco asked.

"The week before the Graduation Party. He told Goyle after the Dark Mark sighting in Hogsmeade."

"Did Goyle speak to you about it?"

"No, not until Blaise seemed to accept him. It was supposed to be _you_, you know? It was always supposed to be you. Goyle and I are the bottom of the barrel. But Blaise said you couldn't be trusted."

Pansy couldn't see his face, but he was scowling as he stroked her back.

"He's right."

"What will we do? We can't take this to Dumbledore. Greg would be sent to prison!"

"Not if I bring him back with me."

She looked up at him, appalled. "What? You don't mean to go alone!"

Draco now had the name of the Recruiter. All he had to do was step outside his room, walk to the Common Room fireplace and request to speak with Arthur Weasley.

And then he would be free. He would have his home, his inheritance and his life back. He would have a chance of a future with Hermione.

But he would not make that call _yet_. He would bring Goyle back first. Telling on Blaise now was liable to implicate Pansy and result in Goyle's eventual imprisonment. If there was going to be anything of his past left after he was done fixing what his father had started, it was going to be his _friends_.

"I can handle Blaise."

Pansy was incredulous. "Forget the Blaise you knew. You don't know what he's capable of. He's insanely jealous of you. And what if Goyle won't come? You didn't see him when he left. He was determined!"

Draco growled. "The hell he won't come. If I have to stun that stupid son of a bitch and _float_ him home, I'll bloody do it. Don't worry about Zabini. He won't be able to harm me."

She searched his face, but his expression gave away nothing. "What do you mean? I can't see how he'll just let you walk away with Goyle!"

Draco flexed the muscles of his left shoulder. The six year old injury may have been the bane of his otherwise excellent physical condition, but today, he was very glad to have it.

"Let's just say he owes me."

**

Ginny Weasley was putting her long hair into a ponytail as she stepped out through the Gryffindor Tower exit. She nearly collided with Harry who was standing directly outside the portrait hole. Her metal hair clip clattered to the floor.

"Harry? I thought you were already downstairs for dinner."

Harry stared at her for a moment and then bent down to pick up her clip. "I wanted to speak to Hermione. She's still in her room, isn't she?"

"Thanks." Ginny accepted the clip from him and finished her ponytail. "She's packing. Are you waiting for her?"

"Yeah. She seems to be taking a while."

Ginny knew Harry almost as well as she knew herself. At that moment, however, she couldn't read him. The realisations unsettled her. "Is everything alright?" she asked.

He was most guarded when he was troubled.

Harry's response was a breezy smile which was designed to reassure. "My mind's just a bit…occupied."

"That's understandable."

On impulse and because he was looking so disgruntled, Ginny stepped forward and gave him a quick, dry kiss on the lips.

"What was that for?" Harry asked.

"Thanks for this afternoon. For handling Hermione's news so well. Ron hasn't completely got over her, you know. I'm thankful that at least one of you has the brains to see the bigger picture. I haven't really made time for Hermione this year. I can't help feeling like I should have known-"

"It's been a busy year," he interjected. He was looking at her curiously.

Ginny gave him a wistful look. "It's going to be so strange next year, without you. Without Ron and Hermione too, of course. I know we said we'd put us on indefinite pause, but seeing Hermione and Malfoy today…hell, Harry, if _they_ can make a go of it, why not us, you know?"

She couldn't work out why he looked triumphant all of a sudden. But the brief look was there and gone before she could analyse it further. "You and me, we're complicated," Harry said, neutrally.

Ginny laughed humourlessly. "Understatement of the year. I suppose Alice Crowley isn't so complicated, then?"

Harry shrugged. "No more than Finnegan is for you."

The slow, rising tension in the air was not aided by both parties being silent.

"Touché," Ginny eventually whispered. "This is a conversation we should save for another time, yes?"

"That would be best."

She held the portrait open for him. "So are you going in to fetch Hermione or not?" she prodded, a little too tartly, when he continued to merely stand there.

Harry's answering smile was not one Ginny could recall seeing on his face before. He looked like the cat that was about to get to the cream.

"Why yes, I guess I am."

**

How on earth did one teen-aged girl accumulate so much junk over the course of seven years? Hermione had spent the remainder of the afternoon attempting to sort her numerous belongings into 'books', 'clothes', 'personal' and 'miscellaneous'.

So far, the books pile was threatening to fall over her and kill her, while the 'personal' pile was woefully tiny. A Valentines card from Krum peeked out of the pages of her sketchbook. She smiled as she rescued it and added it to a shoebox stuffed full of cards, letters and Ron's numerous in-class doodles. There was one of Snape which had nearly resulted in detention for all three of them.

She was folding a raincoat and adding it to the 'clothes' pile in her trunk, when the knock at the door sounded.

"Come in," she called out. She had no idea who it could be. Ginny had just left for the Great Hall and there wasn't anyone else in Gryffindor House, presently, besides the Head Girl.

Hermione was thus was rendered momentarily speechless to find Draco standing in the doorway. He seemed to fill up the space with little left over.

"Draco! How did you get in here?"

"Potter let me in." For some reason, he found this fact amusing.

Seeing Draco in Gryffindor House was a lot like seeing a polar bear in a tropical rainforest. Hermione blinked to refocus her thoughts. He was looking intense and sombre, in all-black. And very handsome. He had obviously washed up for dinner. How lucky. She hadn't found the time.

"I thought Harry was already downstairs. We're doing this combined sit down for dinner."

"So I hear." He tapped his long fingers against his thigh. "Are you going to invite me in or shall we continue this conversation with me standing in the corridor?" There was a teasing quality to his voice.

Hermione blushed. "Of course. Please come in." How could it be that it still felt so awkward doing simple things with him? That was probably because _arguing_ was the norm for them. She made to clear a spot on the bed, but he said he preferred to stand.

"Is something the matter?" she immediately asked.

Draco's face turned serious. "Yes, as a matter of fact."

Hermione frowned. "What is it?"

"Do you love me?"

She gaped at him, not certain if she had heard the question correctly. "Draco," she asked him carefully, "what's wrong? Is this about your promise?"

"Nothing's wrong, except that this is the part where you say it back to me." Had she not been so flustered, Hermione would have noticed the uncharacteristic pout in his voice.

"You surprised me. I didn't expect to see you standing there, let alone saying what you just…said." She caught herself before she started rambling to cover her nervousness. "I do love you," she whispered, staring at her feet.

She could feel her blush reach nuclear levels of brilliance.

His answering smile was toothy. He looked about ten years old. "You have no idea how good it is to hear that from you." He held out his hand. "I'd like to show you something. Come with me."

Hermione's eyebrows rose. "Now? What about dinner?"

"Screw dinner. It won't take long," he assured. It was all very Draco. Hermione couldn't help but grin in response. She didn't want to appear too pleased that he had bothered to seek her out so soon after their afternoon encounter, but in truth she was beyond ecstatic.

"Okay, just give me a second." Hermione attempted to shut her trunk, but the sheer amount of clothing made the task difficult. She tried sitting on it. "By the way, I solved a little mystery earlier today."

"What mystery would that be?" he asked, leaning against the closed door.

She smiled. "The origins of your uh, fertilizer advertisement."

One second. Two seconds…three, three and a half. "Did you, now?" he replied.

That small delay was all it took. He had no idea about the Nutrisoil cap.

The realisation that she was not currently speaking to Draco struck Hermione with the force of speeding Bludger. Her blood froze in her veins. She prayed to God he couldn't see the colour drain from her face almost as if a plug had been pulled. Her eyes strayed over his shoulder, in what she hoped was a casual manner, to where her spare robes hung on the hook behind the door.

Hermione had shoved her wand inside the left pocket. The tip was just visible.

Harry could do wandless Accio at short distances.

Pity she was _not_ Harry Potter.

"Do you need help with that?" he stared pointedly at her trunk. Her weight had not been enough to seal the thing.

Damn. She suddenly wished for Lavender's artful naiveté or Pansy Parkinson's impenetrable wall of indifference. Her own earnestness was going to bury her. She avoided looking at the Imposter directly in the eye, knowing her obvious anxiety would be the first thing to give her away.

Asking him for help would remove him from a direct path to her wand.

"Yes, please." Her smile was rigid, but it was still a smile. "I didn't realise I was such a pack rat."

He walked over to her and bent down to the trunk. That close to the Imposter, Hermione was able to confirm her suspicions. Everything about him screamed 'Not-Draco'. It was suddenly amazing just how much of Draco she could usually _feel_, because she felt absolutely nothing from the stranger crouching beside her.

He didn't like Draco either, though there was a disturbing familiarity about his scent that made her ten times more anxious.

_Click_. The latch on the trunk was flipped into place.

"There. All done," he announced.

When she would have uttered something inane and made a beeline for her wand, he pulled her towards him and began to nuzzle into her neck.

Hermione was reminded once again of how tall Draco was, how strong compared to her. How helpless she felt on the occasions when he did use that superior strength against her. She was reminded of these things especially given the fact that it wasn't currently Draco Malfoy's aforementioned strong arms wrapping around her.

_Play along or be discovered._

She was safe as long as she remained within the castle walls. Professor Lupin had drilled into their head the importance of doing everything in your power to not let yourself be taken to a second location.

Where was Draco? Was he alright? The Imposter had said that Harry had let him into Gryffindor Tower. Was Harry harmed? It had to be Polyjuice at work. Whomever it was knew about her relationship with Malfoy. If she knew nothing else about the Imposter, she at least knew that.

Hermione forced the stiffness out of her limbs and she allowed herself to be held.

He seemed encouraged by this. To her growing horror, he caught her chin and tilted her head up to kiss her.

Every muscle in her body was poised for flight, but she kept perfectly still. After a minute of relatively light kissing, she felt his tongue seek entrance at her closed mouth. Her disgust was going to give her away.

Hermione braced her hands lightly on his shoulder, in what she hoped was a subtle message for him to stop.

He didn't.

She felt Draco's large hand press against the back of her head, increasing the pressure of the kiss. Where it had started off inquisitive, it now changed to become hard and bruising. She struggled, trying to twist her head away while simultaneously pushing against his chest.

"_Stop!_" she gasped and to her relief, he released her.

He knew she knew! The defiant look on his face proved it. Even at his most callous, Hermione could not recall Draco ever looking at her with such blatant malice.

The Imposter snorted and licked his lips in a contemplative manner. "Yes, well I thought I'd be pushing my luck with that."

"Who are you?" Hermione demanded. She wanted to spit, but thought it would probably annoy him all the more.

He feigned hurt. "I'm the man you love. Or are you so fickle that you tell that to every other boy that catches your fancy?" There was a definite surly tone to the question.

He reached for his wand.

_No_. She made a mad dash for her own wand, but he was very quick, catching her around the waist. He spun her in a semi-circle and threw her onto the small bed.

She scrambled around for a weapon, but her desk was on the other side of the room. The Imposter was on her before she could kick or scream. Not that anyone would have heard her. His hand clamped over her mouth and she found herself staring up wildly into Draco's clear, grey eyes. They were not the eyes she knew.

"I'm very fond of you, Hermione, but I'm more attached still to my own skin. I won't hesitate to hurt you if I need to. You understand, don't you? Nod once for yes."

She nodded…and ever so delicately tensed her right knee, just to see how much of his weight was bearing down on it. She almost swooned with relief to discover that he was mostly lying on her left leg and hip. Her hands were pinned, but she wouldn't need them.

Not yet.

The Imposter smiled at her easy acceptance. "We progress. I think."

It was impossible not to cringe when he lowered his face and placed a wet kiss against her cheek. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this," he said huskily.

Draco's teasing words after their first encounter with Arne Hendricks in Knockturn Alley came back to her.

"_Didn't your mother ever teach you to use your knee?"_

Mrs Granger most certainly had.

Hermione brought her right knee up and rammed it into the Imposter's groin.

Predictably, the smug look on his face crumpled. He groaned and doubled over.

Not wasting another moment, Hermione rolled him off of her with every bit of strength she possessed and then bolted from the bed. She vaguely noted that his hand had reached out to grab her, but missed.

It was three steps to the door. Her fingers had only just closed around the familiar, smooth shaft of her wand when she heard the command that stopped her dead in her tracks.

"IMPERIO!"


	41. Chapter 41

**Chapter Forty-One**

**Malfoy Manor, 1992**

"_I dare you." _

_Draco pulled a face. "I don't think that's such a good idea." _

_Blaise laughed. It was a bell-like, infectious sound that echoed pleasantly through the wood-panelled sitting room. "This stopped being a good idea the minute we opened the crate. Come on, Malfoy. Where's your sense of adventure?" _

_Draco didn't feel the need to explain to Blaise that his sense of adventure was directly proportional to how far away his father was, at any given time. _

_Blaise's father, Anton, was visiting Malfoy Manor to discuss business with Lucius. Both men were cloistered in Lucius's favourite study, ostensibly talking imports and galleons and how to equate one with the other. _

_Narcissa was in the kitchen overseeing the well-oiled house elf team of cooks that were seeing to their dinner. They were expecting more business guests later in the evening. Pansy was going to be in attendance with her father. _

_Draco didn't really need to see Pansy at the moment, although she declared that there would be 'loads' to catch up on. He couldn't imagine what further news she could possibly have, given that he had been receiving no less than three letters a week since school had broken up a month earlier. _

_The boys were thus told to occupy themselves elsewhere. _

_That had been the case until Draco let it slip, with a certain smugness, that Lucius recently managed to acquire a genuine Salazar Slytherin artefact. Until further notice, the extremely illegal item was currently stored in one of the ground floor sitting rooms. _

_Blaise was beside himself with curiosity. They had abandoned their brooms and snuck back into the house through Draco's open bedroom window. Blaise had been overcome by giggles the entire time and had to be shushed by an equally amused Draco. _

"_It's ugly," Draco commented, once they had dragged the artefact out of the crate. _

"_I think it's quite nice, actually," Blaise countered. _

_The boys walked around the artefact. It resembled a large, clay urn, nearly as tall as the Blaise and Draco, who were of a height. There were four holes in the urn, each carved into the base of the neck. It was impossible to see if there was anything inside. It looked like a great deal of darkness, which seemed impossible because Draco had even shone his wand at the opening of one hole, to get a better look. _

_Nothing but thick, impenetrable black. Twisting, cavorting, painted snakes slithered all around the urn's surface. They hissed and flicked their forked tongues at the boys each time they got close. There were runes etched into the pottery, but the boys were only in second year and had not started Ancient Runes as yet. _

_Blaise suggested consulting a book, but any suitable texts were in the Library in the western wing, and to get there, they had to get past their fathers. _

"_What do you think Slytherin used it for?" _

_Draco shrugged. "Probably to tell the minions from the maybes." _

_Blaise wrinkled his nose. "A test for loyalty would have been really useful." _

"_Not so for the minions. I'm told it kills you if you fail. As far as I can work it out, you stick your hand in. If your loyalty is true, nothing happens. If not, then there's unpleasantness." _

"_What kind of unpleasantness?" Blaise asked, intrigued. _

"_Dunno. Maybe you go all red and freckled, like a Weasley." _

_Blaise made a gagging noise. "I think I'd prefer death." _

_Draco grinned. "Same." _

"_I wonder what's inside it…" _

"_Zabini, will you please come away from there? We aren't supposed to be here. If my father finds out-" _

"_Just tell him it was my idea." _

_Draco snorted. "He can hardly confirm that with you if you're dead, can he?" _

_Blaise gave him a confident look. "Oh, nothing will happen to me. I'm loyal." _

_To Draco's horror, his friend shoved his arm into one of the holes, up to the elbow. The urn was designed to test fully grown adults, not boys, but Draco noted that if the laws of Muggle physics were to be obeyed, Blaise's fingers ought to have appeared outside the opposite opening. _

_They didn't. _

_Nothing happened for the space of two or three heartbeats. And then: _

_Blaise gave a bit of a jolt, and frowned. _

_Draco rushed forward. "What is it?" _

"_I don't know. It feels…cold." _

"_Right, that's enough. Take it out now, Zabini!" _

"_Why? Nothing's happening. Maybe it's all a-" _

_He didn't get to finish the sentence. All of a sudden, Blaise let out a bloodcurdling scream as the rest of his arm, shoulder deep, was sucked further into the urn. He tried to pull it out, but it seemed to be held fast. _

_Alarmed, Draco grabbed a hold of his friend to help. He tugged on the other boy's arm as hard as he could, with no success. _

_Blaise slumped against the urn, held up only by his captured arm. He made a whimpering noise. _

"_What's happening?" Draco demanded. Blaise was in no shape to answer him. _

_To Draco's horror he could see for himself why. Every blood vessel on Blaise's face seemed to be highlighted. The boy's eyes had rolled back into his face. He looked stricken and gaunt. The urn appeared to be sucking the life right out of him. _

_Alerted by Blaise's scream, the boys' fathers burst into the room. It was a fair distance from the study, and both men looked notably exerted from the sprint. _

_Lucius took one look at the scene before him and cursed. He shoved Draco out of the way, snatched a poker from the fireplace and swung it at the urn. The pottery ought to have shattered, but it didn't even leave a hairline crack. _

_He tried again. Nothing happened. The snakes arched up and hissed with renewed ferocity. Lucius dropped the poker and attempted to pull Blaise's arm out of the urn, as Draco had done. He had about as much luck as his son. _

_Blaise seemed to be fused to the thing. Lucius then tried spell-casting. Draco could hardly make out the incantations his father used, for they were spoken so quickly. _

_Nothing was working and Blaise looked on the brink of death. _

_Anton Zabini was distraught, but Draco could not help but notice that he made no move to approach either the urn or his son. _

"_Malfoy, for the love of…DO SOMETHING!" _

_Lucius lowered his wand. "What do you propose, Anton? You know as well as I that it won't release him until it's finished!" _

_Both men stood and stared. Anton made a choked sound. _

_Draco was incredulous. Why were they just standing there? Why didn't they turn it off!? _

_Terrified, but certain that if someone didn't do something quickly, there would be nothing left of Blaise but a dried up husk of a boy, Draco ran forward and shoved his arm into the hole on the opposite side of the urn. _

_He heard his father's shout and felt Lucius' hands grab him. _

_Blaise had been correct. It was like plunging his arm into ice. There was a frighteningly powerful pulling sensation. His arm felt like it was being ripped out of his shoulder. _

_Draco cried out from the pain, but when he thought that he had made a mistake, that simply thinking loyal thoughts wasn't going to be enough to cancel the effect of the urn, he felt his fingers brush against Blaise's. His friend's hand felt bony and brittle. _

_As soon as Draco got a good grip, he held on for dear life. _

_Blaise was immediately released and expelled from the urn. The force of his grip on Draco's hand wrenched his arm clean out of the shoulder socket. _

_The pain was indescribable. _

_** _

_The boys awakened later to find themselves in a private room at St Mungos. It had to be bad then, for Lucius to take them there. All the old families preferred to call on their personal Mediwizards. _

_An elderly Mediwitch in a blue smock came to poke and prod at them before announcing that she would send in their respective parents. _

_Draco wished she wouldn't just yet. He wasn't eager to face his father's anger. _

_Blaise sat up in his bed. He still looked terrible. His face was all sunken and there were deep, dark circles under his eyes. Draco didn't think he'd soon be able to soon forget the sight of Blaise's life being drained from his body almost as surely as if a demon had stuck a straw into him. _

"_Hey." _

"_Hey." _

"_You saved my life," Blaise informed, in a hoarse whisper. _

_Draco scowled. He was extremely angry with his friend. "Yes, I saved you from the Giant Vase of Soul-Sucking Death. I hope you realise how much trouble I'm in now." _

_Blaise's dark eyes were enormous in his ashen face. "That's a wizard's debt, Malfoy. I owe you." _

"_Whatever! I nearly lost my arm because of you, Zabini. My ruddy arm! Did you hear what she just said? It will never be completely healed. How am I supposed to play Quidditch with one arm, hmm?" _

_The other boy didn't think this was such a big price to pay for the revelation Draco had inadvertently discovered about himself. He had a faintly manic look in his eyes. _

"_Don't you see? You passed the test! You're loyal." _

"_Big, fat, Hagrid, deal." _

"_Draco?" _

"_What." Draco was busy trying to fluff the pillows behind him, one-handed. He wouldn't mind seeing his mother now. No one arranged pillows quite like her. _

"_Can you please not tell anyone about what happened today?" _

_As if Draco was going to run around school shooting his mouth off about the top secret, dangerous artefact his father was keeping stashed in the house. But he was still curious about Blaise's motives. _

"_Why not?" _

_Blaise stared at him like it was obvious. "Because I failed the test. Because I'm not loyal like you are." _

_Loyal to whom or to what, Draco wondered. If he had voiced the question aloud, it would have been rhetorical. He knew Blaise didn't know the answer either. _

_Also, Draco could not help but recall that both their fathers had not attempted what Draco had ultimately attempted. Why was that? Anton Zabini, in particular, had been afraid. _

_His only son had been dying and the man had been afraid. _

_Draco wondered if Lucius would have stuck his hand in, if it had been Draco that was caught. Maybe even doubting that about his father was a horrid thing. _

_Perhaps it wasn't loyalty that the urn was designed to test. Maybe it was just faith._

**

Ginny's troubled thoughts were firmly on Harry, as she entered the Great Hall to join the rest of her schoolmates for dinner.

Dumbledore was as good as his threat. The dozen or so remaining students were seated at what had been the Slytherin table, covered now with cloth in a diplomatic white. Soup was the first course and had already been served. She gave her brother a distracted nod as she walked past him, and then came to an abrupt halt when she spotted Harry.

"Harry!?" she squeaked. "How did you…when did you-?"

Harry put down his buttered bread roll, blinked at her and politely inquired if Hermione was far behind.

The perplexed look on Harry's face, combined with the fact that he was wearing his school uniform, still damaged from the scuffle with Ron and Draco earlier in the afternoon, made her gasp.

She touched her fingertips briefly to her lips, looking nothing short of horrified.

"Ginny?" Harry stood, concerned at her panicked look. He didn't get an answer, because she had run to the staff table.

"Professor Dumbledore, there's an intruder in the castle!" Ginny informed the Headmaster, breathlessly.

It was quiet enough in the Great Hall that everyone heard this. All dinner noises abruptly came to a stop. Tandish Dodders dropped his spoon.

"How do mean, Miss Weasley?" Albus Dumbledore inquired, with lethal precision.

"Someone…that is to say, I just let someone into Gryffindor House. I thought it was Harry at the time because, well it was Harry! But it can't have been because _that's_ Harry," she pointed wildly at a gawking Harry, who was doing his best impression of a meerkat.

"Professor, Hermione Granger is still upstairs!"

Dumbledore was already on his feet. "Minerva, kindly alert Alastor Moody. He should still be at the Ministry, if not, ask for Kingsley Shacklebolt. Remus and Severus, if you would accompany me to Gryffindor Tower at once?"

Snape did a quick scan of the assembled students. "We seem to be missing a pair of School Captains, among other things. Miss Parkinson!" he snapped, his eyes boring into the only senior Slytherin present. "_Where_ are Malfoy, Zabini and Gregory Goyle?"

Pansy stared grimly into her split pea and ham soup and sighed.

**

_Hermione?_

Something was wrong. Without meaning to, Draco turned on his heel and had taken several steps back to the Castle, before he caught himself.

_What am I doing?_

He shook his head, clenched and unclenched his fists in an effort to shake off the odd feeling that he needed to find Hermione and make sure she was alright. Of course she was alright.

She was at Hogwarts. Dumbledore was back. The Aurors had only just left the school and Potter now knew to watch over her.

She was safe.

_Then why do I feel like I've just fallen off a rooftop only to stop short before hitting the ground?_

Damn, but he felt out of sorts all of a sudden.

_Focus, Malfoy_. The stress was getting to him. It made sense that he was worried about her. Hermione was worrying in general, was she not? The sooner he returned with Goyle, the sooner he could get on with life minus the Ministry's blasted contract dogging him. He could then spend the rest of his days worrying about her in peace.

Draco almost smiled at the irony of it.

He pulled out Pansy's poor excuse of a map and consulted it again by wand-light.

Pansy was not nearly as detailed or meticulous as Hermione had been with the Hogsmeade map in Dumbledore's office after the first Dark Mark sighting. Draco made an irritated noise. If the map was intended to be somewhat to scale, then by Pansy's account, Hogwarts would occupy half the Dark Forest and the lake would be more of an annoying puddle beside Hogsmeade Village.

By his calculations, he was about an eight-minute walk from the Castle.

Well, eight minutes by _his_ speed of walking.

Pansy had said fifteen minutes, which meant that he was roughly where he ought to be. A Compass Spell confirmed it.

Draco pulled the hood of his clock off his head and did a complete three-sixty from where he was standing.

What bloody rowan? All he could make out were oaks and willows and a great deal of shrubbery. He shoved the map back into his trouser pocket and tried to recall what else Pansy had said.

_You won't know it's there until you know. It sort of sneaks up on you._

Fantastic. He pictured an evil, cackling, nightmare tree, tip-toeing on its roots through the forest, sneaking up on annoyed Death Eater wannabes who were scouring the area for it.

And just as he thought this, it happened. Draco made a startled noise and backed up.

Pansy hadn't been kidding. The tree had to have been there the whole time, and yet Draco was sure he had looked at that precise spot several times before and spotted nothing.

It was indeed a rowan; an evil and creepy version of the Whomping Willow.

Cautiously, Draco walked up to the thing, looking for signs of an attached Portkey.

The tree couldn't possibly be the Portkey, could it? He didn't think it was possible to use a living thing. After a deep breath, he slapped his gloved hand on the trunk and was a bit relieved when nothing happened.

Was it his imagination or did the tree actually seem to puff up its canopy, in agitation?

"There, there. Nice tree," he crooned. Probably best not to annoy it. The limbs looked sturdy enough to pick him up and hurl him all the way back to Hogwarts.

Hesitating briefly and feeling not a little foolish, he laid his palm against the trunk and stroked it. The tree shuddered, sending several leaves flitting down to the ground. Draco wondered if it behaved like this with all magical folk or whether it happened to be partial to Death Eaters.

_And their progeny_, he silently added.

Just when he was contemplating cajoling the thing, there was a great and ominous creaking noise as the topmost branches parted. Something caught the moonlight and glinted amidst the leaves and blood-coloured blooms.

A thick gold chain swung back and forth in the moving canopy.

Was that a pendant? No, a _coin_. Coins were favoured for use as portkeys.

Draco knew he had found what he'd been looking for. It dangled enticingly in challenge, high above his head.

The tree did not seem to be in an agreeable enough mood to offer it to him.

He was going to have to climb.

With a long suffering sigh, Draco rolled up his sleeves and ventured closer.

_Bugger you, Goyle. Bugger you sideways with a broom._

**

Portkeys were a complicated type of magic involving a thorough understanding of perimeters and confines. To the lay-Muggle, this basically meant you needed to be rather good at difficult mathematics to work out just how strong a spell was needed and where exactly to program your portals perimeters.

They required a great deal of energy to function and for that reason, were not normally located in crowded or magically congested areas, lest the portal malfunction from atmospheric interference.

Malfunctions varied. A user could find him or herself appearing several kilometres off-target or they could show up at their intended destination having lost their handbag or shoe (or in one celebrated case, a nose) to the ether.

It was for these reasons that the Ministry placed strict regulations on the creation and use of such devices. Case in point was the Quidditch World Cup. You had to give the Ministry eggheads three months advanced notice, so they could plot the departure and arrival points with accuracy.

Draco hated Portkey travel.

The pros far outweighed the cons, yes, but the one great con was that it made you feel like your insides were attached to a fishing hook that was rapidly being reeled in by some sadistic unseen force in some distant location.

There was also the fact that Draco had never managed to land gracefully on his feet at the end of the transportation.

It was a great mystery, to be sure.

Arguably, he was nimble enough on the ground, even more so in the air, but for some reason he always managed to land flat on his arse every time he used a Portkey.

This occasion was no different. Draco was unceremoniously deposited on a mound of compacted earth in a wooded area that might have still been the Dark Forest. It was that similar. Grimacing, he rolled as soon as he touched the ground, wand already at the ready. He pulled on the hood of his cloak over his bright hair and took cover.

The clearing was for a lack of a better word, clear. The shoeprints and tracks in the dirt indicated that the site was in frequent use, however. Best to move off before the next traveller turned up.

Draco dusted himself off as he gained his bearings. He soon determined that he had not travelled that far from Hogwarts, judging from the position of the moon, the weather, the local plant life and the scent of the air. To his surprise, he also realised that there was a Muggle road not too far off. A busy one at that, judging from the noise. He could only just make out the sounds when the direction of the wind changed.

Having orientated himself, he saw that he was at the foot of a slope. A short trek upwards, where the vegetation became sparse, eventually revealed a stone structure of three or four storeys.

It looked to be an old, crumbling castle. On closer inspection it wasn't actually big enough to have been a castle. More like a fort or the remnants of an old, stone manor.

Draco waited in the shadowed tree-line for several minutes as he surveyed the area. There didn't look to be a soul on guard duty, but there were lights visible in the upper floors.

Somebody was definitely home. There was no movement, however, that didn't mean the bastards hadn't set up wards of some kind. From his vantage point behind a tree, he racked his brain for a suitable spell.

"Fumeus Acclaro," he whispered, after some thought.

A light mist poured from the tip of his wand. He kept it low to the ground. The mist crept onwards to the walls of the stone building, unhindered. Thankfully, there were no discernible wards or the Fumeus spell would have encountered an invisible obstacle.

So far so good.

Some part of him was completely terrified. Draco knew this, but that part was taking a backseat. It was being grim, silent and stoic. Something else had switched on in him. A utility he was aware that he had always possessed, but previously only used in minor quantities.

Who knew? Maybe it was something in the blood? The logical part of his brain was screaming danger, risk and consequence, but that _other_ part of him calmed his breathing, kept him sharp and alert and reassured him that his task that evening was entirely doable if he kept his wits about him.

He waited until a patch of cumulus passed under the waxing moon, before making a dash to the front wall. He flattened himself against it, reached out and very slowly tested the long, door handle.

It was locked. Well _yes_, it was going to be locked. After thinking for a moment, he ran around to the side, sticking close to the moss-covered stone. It felt cool against his back, even under his dark shirt and cloak.

Somewhere nearby, an owl was hooting. There were skittering and creaking noises coming from the wood, but it was nothing out of the ordinary and more importantly, provided some background noise.

He left the wall momentarily to get a look at the upper floors. Perhaps a window had been left open? As it turned out, he didn't need to go that far. There was a gaping hole in the first floor, opening into a large, empty room. Even from where he stood outside, he could make out the layer of dead leaves littering the floor.

Whoever was using the place didn't put too much stock into house-keeping or security, apparently. But then he supposed that _finding_ the building in the first place was the real challenge.

Draco cast Leviosa and hovered himself upwards until he was suspended just outside the room. He ducked his head around the edge of the hole to check that the room and attached corridor was well and truly deserted.

Where was everyone? There were noises. He could make them out now. Someone had either opened or shut a door further along the corridor. There was a man's voice, low and urgent. This was followed by rapid footsteps.

Quickly, he stepped into the room, wincing at the crunching noise his hiking boots made as he stepped on the carpet of dried leaves. Thankfully, the wind had started up again. More leaves blew into the room from outside.

The footsteps were approaching. Whomever it was, was not exactly light on their feet. The thunk-thunk-scrape combination was suddenly familiar. Draco crouched in the darkness under a collapsed beam.

And came eye to eye with a family of doxies.

They were as pleased to see him as he was to see them. The largest one, a muscular, black, hairy thing which looked to be the patriarch of the family, darted forward and gave the tip of Draco's boot an experimental nibble. It didn't like the taste of it, but thankfully its frustration seemed to be spent.

The doxies cleared off to a higher perch and Draco strained to listen, almost painfully, to the noise outside the corridor.

It was Goyle! It _had_ to be. His friend's recently broken leg had given him a slight drag in his walk.

The arrival of the footsteps did indeed produce Goyle, who appeared to be in quite a hurry. He walked right past the door-less threshold. When Draco was satisfied that his friend was well and truly on his own, he ducked from under the beam and stepped out into the nearly pitch black, corridor.

There looked to be a set of stairs located at either end. Goyle was heading for one of them.

_Greg, you stupid fuck, turn around!_

But he didn't. He kept right on and then turned the corner at the opposite end of the corridor, to use the steps.

Draco nearly called out to him before he caught himself. Silently cursing, he sprinted to the stairs nearest to him, thinking to catch Goyle on the next floor. Draco crept down the first three steps, which squeaked and protested mightily.

He stopped on the fourth, but only because his foot went straight thought it. The smell of rotting wood came rather belatedly.

"Oh, _shit_."

The whole thing gave way. Where there had been two flights of wooden steps leading to the upper and lower floors, there was now a big, gaping hole.

It seemed a miracle that Draco managed to find the time to roll his eyes before he fell through.


	42. Chapter 42

**Chapter Forty-Two**

**From Chapter Six -**

"_What would you do if you had your freedom again?" Snape asked. _

_There was no hesitation or artifice in Lucius's response, which was almost as unsettling to Snape as the reply itself. _

"_Take my son, willing or not, and run," said the former Death Eater. _

"_You really would condemn him to that kind of existence?" Snape questioned. "One where he would have to forsake every person he has ever known, always running, always hiding?" _

_The flames were gone, reduced to a faint wafting of green smoke, and the image of Lucius wavered. "I would," Lucius said, his voice now sounding like an echo. "In a heartbeat." _

_The Floo transmission ended with the sound of a snuffed candle. _

_All that was left to mark the conversation was the sooty, coppery scent of Floo fire, and the fact that Snape was wide awake, alert and more shaken than he would care to admit. _

_He walked over to his desk and sat down. It was a fine desk, a claw-footed, rosewood and mother of pearl creation that had been in his family for three generations. It was the one of the few things in his life that he felt a sentimental attachment to. _

_The outside observer would have noted that the desk had four sizeable, brass handled drawers, two located at either end. But as Snape tapped his wand at the centre of the desk and murmured a brief incantation, a fifth, much smaller drawer appeared. _

_The hidden compartment sprang open, revealing a small bundle of green velvet. Snape stared at the bundle for a moment, and then removed it. His hands might have shook somewhat, but he was a Potions Master, and there was no place in his profession for that kind of weakness. _

_Snape gingerly unwrapped the cloth. Nestled inside the material was a bright, golden key._

**

Harry couldn't decide whether to sit or stand. It was all Ron's fault for not being there in Dumbledore's office. Ron was currently using McGonagall's private fireplace to speak to his father.

Usually, it was Ron who needed to be told to calm down. In his absence, Harry was officially the most worked-up person in the room and he didn't like it.

He was too anxious to stay still for longer than a minute and Professor McGonagall had already snapped at him twice because of his 'distracting pacing'. So he allowed Ginny to pull him into the empty seat beside her and didn't seem to notice that she was currently gripping his hand hard enough to cut off the circulation in his fingers. He was used to it from attending seven years worth of Quidditch matches with Hermione.

For all her eye-rolling and alleged indifference when it came to the sport, Hermione was very big on hand-holding when anxious. Ron had once remarked that she had very nearly snapped his fingers off during Harry's first task in the Tri-Wizard Tournament.

"This is all my fault," Ginny whispered. She had relayed the entire encounter with fake-Harry in front of Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Lupin. The details may have been mortifying, but it was nothing to the guilt of having unwittingly aided Hermione's kidnapper.

"I can't believe you thought _that_ was me," Harry muttered, unhelpfully. "And you kissed him!"

Ginny made a sound that was halfway between a sob and a moan and put her face in her hands for what had to be the fifth time in the past ten minutes.

Dumbledore had just finished briefing Professor McGonagall on his findings from Gryffindor Tower. "Harry," he began, "if the entire faculty mistook a Death Eater for Alastor Moody, for the duration of a school term, I assure you that it is quite possible for Miss Weasley to be similarly duped. Keep in mind that I have known Alastor for over forty years."

"Where is Alastor?" McGonagall asked.

"Making an inspection of Miss Granger's room," Dumbledore informed. He was completely calm, but it was the calm of dark rain cloud in a windless, humid, sky. A thunderous downpour was imminent. "His team has sealed off all exits. If Miss Granger is still in the Castle, we hope to keep her here."

"Why kidnap her now?" Lupin wondered. "If that was the plan all along why wait until the last day of school? There was no guarantee that she would even be here. Most of the school has packed up and left already."

Ginny's head came up. Her face was stark white as she stared at Harry. "Oh, Harry we have to tell them!"

"Tell us what?" McGonagall barked.

Yes. They would most definitely have to tell. If Dumbledore was looking for a red flag, something out of the ordinary, then Draco and Hermione's marriage was probably it.

Harry nodded jerkily and ran a hand roughly through his hair. He opened his mouth to begin, but was forestalled by the Headmaster.

"Professor Snape has seen fit to inform us of Miss Granger's…unique situation," Dumbledore explained. "In light of what has happened, it was the prudent thing to do."

Harry gaped at him. "So you know they got married after the Graduation Party?"

Professor McGonagall had apparently not been told as yet. She made a startled sound. "Who got married?"

"Yes, Harry, he knows now," Lupin supplied.

He gave McGonagall a sympathetic pat on the hand and proceeded to explain how her star pupil had run off with Hogwart's most notorious student and had taken it upon herself to marry the lad. While extremely drunk, he hastened to add. And then there was the business about marriage tattoos and an irreversible spell.

McGonagall looked apoplectic by the end of the summarised explanation.

Moody entered Dumbledore's office. Although perhaps 'entered' was too gentle a word. He stormed in, flanked by Kingsley Shacklebolt and Astrid Huggins, Donald Bligh's Auror girlfriend.

Lupin was surprised to see her back at work so soon since Bligh's and Tonk's disappearance.

"Hello, Lupin," she said.

"Astrid," he replied in kind. They shared a look of misery.

Dumbledore stood. Harry realised he hadn't even noticed the Headmaster's apparent lack of anger until now.

"Alastor?" Dumbledore demanded confirmation of the worst. Everyone in the room felt the little jolt in the air, as if a bag of static electricity had been let loose. The hairs on the back of Harry's neck stood on end.

Moody only paused for a moment to give the stricken McGonagall a brief look before he relayed his findings.

"Well, we can be sure the girl didn't go willingly."

And with that, he limped the three steps to Dumbledore' desk and laid Hermione's wand on it.

Dumbledore's expression darkened. They had clearly been hoping that Hermione was merely detained for some inexplicable reason and had not in fact, been abducted.

The truth of the matter sat on Dumbledore's desk, however. Anyone who knew Hermione was well aware that she wouldn't have gone anywhere without her wand.

Lupin's face fell. "Taken, then."

"Aye," Moody huffed. He stared down at the wand. "If this business about your Hogwarts Recruiter is to be believed, then it might be, Albus, that your girl stumbled across the son of a bitch accidentally. Wherever she is, I'm betting we'll find my missing team members as well."

"She did that when the Chamber was opened." Ginny's voice was listless.

At Moody's questioning look, Dumbledore elaborated how Hermione, in her second year, had discovered that a Basilisk was responsible for the attacks at Hogwarts, and had been saved from certain death by the clever use of a hand mirror to see around corners as she hurried to inform the others of her theory.

Moody sighed. "Uncommonly smart, that girl is. I'm having a talk with her about a career at the Academy as soon as we have her back." Harry didn't think he knew Moody well enough to tell if this was an attempt at lightening the mood in the room. If it was, it didn't work.

"What about the other missing students?" Lupin inquired.

"Where's the Parkinson girl?" Moody snapped. "I was told she might know something about the Slytherins."

"Professor Snape is questioning her," Dumbledore informed. "I insisted," he added, at Moody's scowl.

Moody rubbed his jaw. "Poor chit," he said, without any trace of sympathy. "I'll wait my turn then. You have four missing, Albus. Three of them are on a certain list we like to pretend doesn't exist."

"What list?" Harry immediately asked.

"A list of students most likely to turn to Voldemort," Dumbledore told him. It was clearly not a favourite topic.

"The list was made at the insistence of the Minister of Magic."

"Blaise Zabini is on it?" Harry asked, not bothering to mask his surprise. "Who decides which students make the list?"

"Hogwarts staff," said Dumbledore. "And me."

Harry goggled at him. "Then you must know something about Zabini that the rest of us don't, because he seems about as likely to join Voldemort as Hermione."

Dumbledore gave him a levelling look. "The names are not meant to be added lightly, Harry."

"And what about Malfoy? Knowing what we know about him, can you safely say he harbours any such desire at present time?" Lupin added.

No one mentioned Goyle. Sometimes the obvious was painful as it was obvious.

"Narrow it down then, Albus," Moody suggested. "They're your kids. Have a gander. I want my missing Aurors back before the week's end. One way or another."

McGonagall looked stunned. "You think one of them is the Recruiter? A student, Alastor?"

"Tom Riddle was once a student," Dumbledore reminded all of them.

Moody growled. He alone seemed immune to Dumbledore's quiet fury. He glared at the Headmaster. "I'm wanting to speak to the Parkinson girl _now_."

"I have instructed Professor Snape to bring her to us."

"If you find out anything, you're taking me with you," Harry told Moody.

Moody snorted. "I take _Aurors_, boy." He stared down at Harry. "Last time I checked, you're still in school uniform."

Harry's eyes spat green fire. He was too far gone to notice that Moody's words were more challenge than flat refusal. "I've been old enough to _know_ for some time now." These words he had directed at Dumbledore. He stared at Lupin next. "I'm old enough to do something about it. I'm not Sirius Black. I won't make the same mistake. Hermione's taught me better."

Lupin looked physically pained, but the added lustre in his hazel eyes was mostly due to conviction. "If you've noticed I'm not immediately disagreeing," he replied, in a thick voice. McGonagall leaned forward and patted him on the hand.

Harry's bluster left him. "Thank you," he whispered to Lupin.

"If you get killed, Harry, I won't forgive you."

"I won't get killed," Harry promised fervently.

Moody grunted. "Albus, your missing students are the lead we've been waiting for. We'll take the parents in for questioning, get some background on Zabini and Goyle"

"What about Draco?" Ginny asked. She was perplexed that hardly any mention had been made of him.

"What about him?" Moody's magical eye swivelled to where Ginny sat. The force of his milky blue stare made her squirm. "I'm guessing he's turned. Pure and simple. No offence to your judgment, Lupin," Moody inclined his scarred head to the Defence Professor, "but the boy's a bad seed. _And_ he's on the list."

"Do not forget that the list is an exercise in Ministry politics, Alastor," Dumbledore reminded in a near hiss. Harry was struck by just how involved Arthur Weasley was in the day to day running of Hogwarts. It had to be driving Dumbledore up the wall.

"The list is proving accurate so far," Moody reminded.

Ron walked into the room then, looking more dejected than Harry had ever seen him. He paused when confronted with the tangible tension in the air and then cleared his throat.

"Dad's on his way," he told the Headmaster, with immense gravity. "They've just finished sending for the Goyles and the Zabinis. We're…well we're undecided on what to tell Hermione's parents."

"We must tell them something!" McGonagall insisted. "The girl is due back home tomorrow morning!"

Dumbledore walked back around his desk and sat down heavily. "Leave the Grangers to me. In the meantime, we will await Severus and Miss Parkinson. I expect news that will assist our investigation."

**

Snape stood in front of the fireplace, a slight frown on his face. His long-fingered hands were curled into tight fists. His grip was particularly tight in his right hand, where he held the golden key that had been secreted away in his desk for the past three years.

The metal collected the warmth of his body until it seemed to sear his palm. It was all in his mind, of course.

That was part of the magic. Powerful magic took belief to function. Belief in the words, belief in the effect. He held onto the dark device, glad to be reminded of the many unseemly things he had left behind in a past life.

Pansy sat on the lounge in the adjoining room. She was catatonic for the moment, but the after-effects of Veritaserum would wear off very shortly. There wasn't much time before he brought her to Dumbledore with the information he had retrieved, albeit forcefully.

The girl's stubbornness was the result of a promise made to Draco. That the boy could inspire such devotion was not a complete surprise. What was a surprise was that she was very much in love with his troubled godson. He was slipping in his old age, Snape decided, to have missed _that_.

The Floo connection crackled, the fire intensified. Snape was now staring at the familiar old house elf who had never been able to pronounce his name.

"Toolip will fetch Master Lucius at once," said the creature, calmly and she was off at a brisk hobble.

Lucius appeared within minutes, fully dressed in an immaculate set of robes the colour of a night-time sea. It was a definite improvement on the silk dressing gowns which had become his usual attire, no matter the time of day.

He had run to the fire. Snape could tell from his heightened colour. Either that or he'd been drinking again. It didn't seem likely this time, though. Lucius Malfoy's quicksilver eyes were clear today, thank the heavens.

They darkened however, when he observed Snape's expression.

"What's the matter? Is it Draco?" he immediately asked.

Snape didn't need to break it to him gently. Lucius was used to hearing very bad news very quickly.

"Your son has run off to rescue Gregory Goyle from becoming a Death Eater. The Recruiter has also been identified."

"He did WHAT?!" Lucius bellowed. The flames flared before settling once again within the fireplace.

Faced with Lucius' fury, a lesser man might have quailed. Snape had seen worse, however.

On occasion, _he_ was worse.

"You heard me."

"Goyle's son! I can't say it wasn't fated." Lucius' eyes narrowed into silver slits. "Who is the Recruiter?"

"Anton's boy."

Lucius actually brought his hand to his mouth and gasped. It would have been a comical sight, if the situation wasn't so horrendous. "You cannot be serious!."

"Have you known me to be anything other?" Snape said impatiently.

"The boy worships Draco!"

"Yes, and we know what a fine line it is between worship and resentment." Smile's smile was razor thin, and just as sharp. "There is more. I suspect Zabini has taken Hermione Granger captive."

He ignored Lucius' dramatic groan.

"To what end, we are not yet certain, but there is the blindingly obvious…"

"Potter," Lucius concluded. He breathed in deeply and then raised his chin. "But you are sure my idiot son went after the Goyle boy only? He doesn't know the girl's been taken?"

"If he doesn't yet, I suspect he is soon to find out."

"You said 'we'. What is Dumbledore doing about this?"

When he allowed himself, during what he would like to call his 'small lapses', Snape sometimes reflected on Lucius Malfoy's capacity to be utterly and ruthlessly efficient in the most dire of emergencies. He reflected and he lamented. It was likely this very trait that had once endeared the elder Malfoy to Voldemort.

"He has called in Moody, predictably. They will begin planning just as soon as I tell them what they need to be looking for. The Parkinson girl suffered a narrow escape at Zabini's hands. Your foolish son may not be so lucky.

"Only if he gets caught," Lucius added. The expression on Lucius' face was panic warring with fatherly pride, that Snape thought extremely inappropriate.

But then, Lucius _was_ inappropriate.

Snape rolled his eyes. He had been half-anticipating this. "He might have stood a chance at retrieving Goyle if this latest development had not occurred."

Lucius approached closer. There must have been an open window in the Manor sitting room because his long, unbound hair blew around his shoulder. Long, white-blond wisps of it came through Snape's fireplace. If Snape took a step forward, he would be able to touch them.

"Severus, then you must find Draco."

"There may yet be a way to retrieve Miss Granger, Goyle and your son, without lasting….consequences. I have my suspicions about whether or not the Dark Lord is aware of Zabini's current course of action. I have a suggestion, Lucius, but one that will unfortunately remove me from the task of finding my godson."

Snape had Lucius' full attention. "What suggestion could be worth that?" he exclaimed, with notable desperation. "You must not relinquish the search! Who else if not you!"

In reply, Snape threw the key into the fire.

Lucius caught it mid-air, flinched at the heat of the metal. He stared at the finely wrought, gold key for a moment and then looked up in astonishment at Snape.

"I've just given you your freedom, Lucius. Now, you're going to _earn_ it."

**

"Draco." Someone was doing very pleasant things to his forehead. It felt like a kiss. No, a gentle stroking. Or maybe a cool palm laid against his flushed skin. It was all these things. There was an achingly familiar fragrance as well that made his stomach clench with childhood memory.

"Sweetheart, wake up," urged the voice. Unlike the soothing sensations, the voice was clear. It didn't feel like something from a dream and this was why Draco decided to reply.

Draco looked at his mother, thinking that it was the most normal thing in the world for her to be there at that particular moment. There was so much he wanted to say. He thought he should start with an apology.

"Whatever for?" smiled Narcissa. Draco noted that she seemed to be wearing something white and flouncy, and he wanted to snort and tell her what a cliché that was.

But then he realised that his eyes were still closed. Very strange. Not alarming, just strange.

"For not saving you," Draco replied. "Who did it, Mother? Who killed you? Tell me," he pleaded.

"And what shall you do with the name I give you?" she asked him, gently.

"Kill them right back."

She shook her head. Draco observed that her fine, golden hair was also defying gravity, floating all about her as if she was underwater.

"Not for me, sweetheart. You'll do it for _you_, and then you'll have to live with that knowledge for the rest of your life. You are not your father, Draco. He is able to do a great many terrible things without regret. Not so, you. My family influence, I'm afraid," she sighed. "Look at my own sister, Andromeda. And Sirius Black. We have a tendency to produce the odd witch or wizard with a moral compass, however late-blooming or inconvenient it might be."

Draco had never heard his mother talk like this. It was Narcissa, but it was a Narcissa he had never known. The bitterness and the distance was gone. All he could feel was her love for him. Because it felt completely authentic, he trusted what she was saying to him.

"Why are you telling me all this now?"

"I have the benefit of…" she seemed to search for the word, "an elevated view over the proceedings, so to speak." Her smile was impish.

"They let you into heaven?" he asked. In his mind's eye, Draco could imagine how enormous his eyes were as he said this.

She laughed. He laughed too. He hadn't meant to sound so incredulous.

"I'm supposed to tell you that I'm not really here. This is all in your head, which I daresay has taken quite a pounding this week," she scolded. "We don't have a lot of time, so you need to listen to me very carefully."

"Yes?"

She seemed to make sure he was truly paying attention, before continuing. "When the time comes, look for the light and head towards it. You'll be safe if you do that. Find it and you'll be alright. If you remember nothing else about this, remember that."

Oh dear God. He was going to die.

Since she was a figment of his imagination, he didn't actually need to say this aloud for her to hear it. Narcissa rolled her eyes. Her floating white robes, which seemed to be an extension of her body, billowed outwards with annoyance.

"I didn't say anything about dying, Draco! Honestly, you over react just like your father. Heed my words and you'll be fine."

"Ok, white light equals good. I got it."

A coolness washed over him. It was the fear and the knowledge that had been buried in his subconscious from the moment Hermione had been put under Imperious. Since he was having a conversation with his subconscious, he thought it would be a good idea to ask it a couple of things he hadn't realised were bothering him.

"Mother?"

"Yes? Quickly Draco."

"Given your elevated vantage point and all…what's happened to Hermione?" Draco asked. "Why I can't I feel her? I can always feel her…" He saw himself touching his chest, touching where his heart was, feeling a phantom pain.

His mother did not smile or laugh this time. But the same annoying, kindly look was still there. Draco didn't like any of it anymore. He wanted to know why Hermione wasn't answering him.

"You'll have time. Just remember what I told you. I'm sorry I can't be more specific." She looked over her shoulder, as if hearing a noise he couldn't detect. And then, with a parting smile, she was gone.

Draco woke up.


	43. Chapter 43

**Chapter Forty-Three**

When Draco opened his eyes, Blaise was leaning against a wall with one knee bent under him. Like Draco, he was wearing black; black school pants that were slightly dusty at the knees and a light, hooded jumper.

He had a faintly amused look on his fine-boned face as he smoked a cigarette. There was a dripping noise in the distance. Draco focussed on that rhythm, eventually emerging out of his stupor.

He swallowed, licked his dry lips. "Hey."

Blaise took a long drag from his cigarette, seeming to study Draco quite seriously before replying. "Hey."

"How long have I been out?"

"Three hours."

The enormous pain in his left shoulder receded enough to inform Draco that the more minor aches in his arms and legs was due to the fact that he was strung up in chains against a wall.

There were no windows and the air was wet and stale. He could only guess that he was presently in the dungeons. Other revelations soon confirmed this.

His wrists and ankles were in manacles. A quick glance to the right revealed a pulley-system that must have operated the restraints. There were weights attached to a wheel and a lever that probably determined the slack of the chains.

As painfully as Draco was currently stretched, the lever only looked to be in the lowest setting. If Blaise pushed it to the top, Draco's acknowledged, with a strange sort of placidity, that his limbs would be ripped from his body.

_Right. Definitely the dungeons._

And if that didn't make matters worse, the fiery pain in his right thigh was due to a six-inch bit of jagged wood sticking out of his flesh. There was a gash on his forehead. Sticky, dried blood ran down his eye and the left side of his face.

_The stairs_, Draco recalled with a groan. Done in by a set of steps.

"I didn't know you smoked."

"You don't know a lot of things about me," Blaise said.

"So it's you, then. You're the Recruiter that's got the Ministry in a snit."

"Yeah." Blaise definitely looked amused now. He dropped the cigarette butt and stubbed it out with his foot.

Draco could not help but tense as Blaise walked over to the lever. Thankfully, murder most gruesome was apparently not on Blaise's mind as yet, because he pulled the lever all the way back with a loud, rusty, crank.

Draco's legs were not prepared for sudden use. He slid down the wall bonelessly, some ten feet of slack chain lay either side of him on the stone floor. The returning flow of blood to his joints was excruciating. Blaise walked over, squatted beside him and roughly pulled the splintered wood out of Draco's thigh.

White, hot pain blinded his vision momentarily, but he gritted his teeth and kept his eyes trained on Blaise.

_Drip, drip, drip_. The water continued in the distance. He clung to the noise.

"I gather Pansy told you?" Blaise said, in a perfunctory manner. "That stupid bitch could never keep a secret, not even under the threat of death, it would seem."

"Touch her at your peril, Zabini," Draco winced out.

Blaise smiled. His white teeth were wolf-fang yellow in the lantern-lit gloom. "I don't think Pansy's peril you should be worrying about. Though I may be moved to compassion, seeing as we're such good friends."

"You're not my friend, you arsing bastard. Voldemort's standards have seriously dropped if he's interested in the likes of you."

"You think so?" Blaise asked, only he wasn't Blaise. He was Potter. And then, he was Hermione. Draco's heart seemed to swell and explode from the unexpected emotional assault of seeing her. He could not contain the small sound that escaped him.

"You're…you're a metamorphmagus!"

Blaise, who was now Blaise again, grinned. "Cool, huh?"

"Why? Why all this?"

The smile vanished. "You're a smart fellow, Draco. The 'why' is rather moot, don't you think?"

Draco sneered at him. He tried for indifference, but he knew he was looking nothing short of murderous. If he had been gone for three hours, it wouldn't be long before Pansy was questioned about his disappearance.

If some sort of rescue mission was in the works, he'd have to stall for time before Blaise handed him over to Voldemort.

"The usual then? Power, influence, wealth, women?"

"Actually, I was bored," Blaise shrugged. He rose to his feet and began to pace. "Bored out of my fucking skull. Do you have any idea how frustrating it is to see a man like Dumbledore, with all that power and wisdom, to see him waste it by being so bloody unrealistic? I would have followed power like that, but the man hasn't a clue what we _need_. We, us, wizards! We need leadership. We need long term."

Enough feeling had returned to Draco's limbs to allow him some movement now. As discreetly as possible, he began coiling the slack chain behind him. If he managed to get Blaise close enough to knock him out, he'd have a wand.

"And you think you're the one to provide that plan, do you?"

"Yes. I do," Blaise nodded. "Voldemort makes a hell of a lot of sense some of the time. I'm sure your father would agree. There is no such thing as good or bad, dark or light. There's just life and power what we choose to do with it. The magical world suffers from an over abundance of categories, I think."

Draco did not have to feign his disbelief. "Oh, I subscribe to that newsletter as well. There's just one problem with your 'editor'. Voldemort's a few columns short of a balanced ledger."

Blaise smirked. He had always enjoyed Draco's quick wit. "I noticed. But he's on his way out. Trust me. A younger, new generation of Death Eaters will not remember so well what it was like to _truly_ fear him. His influence is diminishing. Suffice to say we get away with bloody murder half the time. Pun intended."

"How did you find him? What, did you place an advertisement in the Prophet? 'Up and coming sociopath seeking equally unstable Dark Lord for Evil Mentoring'? "

"I didn't find him. He found me. Rather, his men did. I started asking the right kinds of questions in fifth year. Spent my summers in places you wouldn't visit without an armed escort. Recruitment was wishful thinking then. Death Eaters are a dying breed, getting older, fatter, slower…This helped, of course," Blaise added, changing himself into the face and form of Severus Snape .

"I had no idea our traitorous Head of House had such useful connections. Six months ago, I met an odious little man by the name of Peter Pettigrew. The rest, as they say, is history. I'm having fun, Draco," he added, as if he too were surprised by that fact.

"Fun!" Draco scoffed. "Zabini, you are out of your mind if you think you can get one up on Voldemort."

"Why? I'm his trusted Recruiter," said Blaise. "It's a dangerous task, not a suicidal one. Do you think I'm too young? Potter is the same age as us and the rest of the world is asking _him_ to do eventual battle against a wizard five times his potency. The Dark Lord was only four years younger than you and I, when he made that beautiful, forest sentinel that brought you here. He was our age when he opened the Chamber of Secrets. Age is nothing. Ability is everything, Malfoy. _That_ is what the Dark Lord prizes." He tilted his head to the side and regarded Draco with a pitying expression.

"You have always had the personality and the family connections, my friend. But you never had the ambition. What a poor Slytherin you turned out to be."

"If I lack ambition, you lack common sense," Draco seethed. "You were the one who cast the Dark Mark over Hogsmeade, weren't you?"

Blaise didn't look too keen to discuss the incident. "I was there that afternoon, wasn't I? Potter wandered off to gather the Tangleweed, always the hero. It's always a silent competition with that boy. Let me tell you, Draco, there is nothing in the world as sadly predictable as a hero. They're egos are as a big as their imaginations are tiny."

"On that we agree," Draco muttered.

"It was a simple thing to walk into the trees and announce to all who would care to listen, that Voldemort had not forgotten about them." Blaise's face twisted into an unattractive sneer. It was the first time Draco could ever really call him ugly.

"The wand was be-spelled, the Mark became tainted …"

Draco's laugh was as genuine as it was bitter. "Ah, the good old Malfoy Standard! How nice to know I fucked up your big moment without even knowing. My dad must have laughed fit to choke when he heard that."

Blaise wanted a respectful audience, not an amused one and Draco had been purposefully taunting him for many minutes now. He stepped forward and hauled Draco up by the front of his shirt, shoving the tip of his wand against Draco's throat.

Draco grunted, amused that it took Blaise quite of a bit of heave to hold Draco's larger form up.

"Remember your debt," Draco whispered smugly. "I could have let Slytherin's artefact suck the life right out of you. I could have let your father stand by and watch you die."

Blaise's face was inches away. He stared at Draco with great loathing. "Oh, I remember."

_Now_, Draco thought. He was just about to swing the chains upwards when Blaise darted away. Dammit!

With great reluctance, Draco released the linked iron he was planning to aim at Blaise's head.

"You sent that note to Dodders, didn't you? Framing me, asking him to do the Bludger Run? Why? What does he have to do with any of this?"

Blaise blinked, as if the current topic had nothing really to do with Voldemort at all. "Dodders was a means to an end. I needed to prove something."

"What?" Draco snapped. "That the boy can't sprint ten yards to save his life? That he wears monogrammed pyjamas?"

"Patience. You'll see."

"No more games, you psycho. Where's my cousin? The Auror and her partner, where are they?"

"Forget your cousin!" Blaise said, through gritted teeth. "The bonds of family are seriously overrated, if you ask me. Voldemort would tell you the same thing."

Draco froze. "What are you talking about?" He was very wary now. Blaise looked on the verge of becoming hysterical. Whatever he was about to reveal was upsetting for him as well.

"I'm talking about your _mother_, Draco. My first mission was set the week after I took the Mark. I was to go to her, ask her to return to the fold. There would be a place for her, you see. She knew too much. The Ministry was foolish to neglect her. My Master is not so careless."

Draco shook his head, as if denial would ease the horror of what he was experiencing. He looked at Blaise with something akin to hope.

For those used to Draco's characteristic indifference and iron-plated façade, the change in him was astounding. Blaise, for all that he resented the other boy, was not entirely unmoved by the raw emotion on Draco's face.

"Oh, Blaise, what did you do…"

"WHAT I HAD TO!" Blaise shouted, his voice breaking. "Did you think I wanted to? She was not the one who betrayed us. It was your father! But she resisted-"

"Does Bellatrix Lestrange know what you did to her sister?" Draco spat. His voice was shaking, but he was powerless to stop it.

Blaise did not answer, but his previous distress was replaced with an eerie confidence. He was rationalising Narcissa's murder in his head, Draco surmised.

That was good. Doubt was good.

"She doesn't, does she? Answer me!"

"It was Bellatrix who gave the order to terminate Narcissa if she refused to comply," Blaise answered quietly.

That had not been what he wanted to hear.

Draco shut his eyes. He was still asleep. That had to be it. Maybe he was still at the Cobblestone Inn with Hermione curled up in his arms. This was a nightmare, but he would wake up soon. He would hold her and she would love him. Hermione loved him. Really, truly, loved him, despite what and who he was and the horrible way he treated her.

He didn't need to pretend she was out of her mind any more. Despite his silent denials, he had realised that to be the truth the moment she had told him. Not just because the girl had more honour and integrity than anyone he had ever known, but because he could _feel_ the truth for himself.

Fida Mia breeched the great, wide gulf between them. It was the conduit that had delivered each startling, wonderful revelation for how she felt about him.

But he wasn't feeling any of it now.

What he was remembering, all of a sudden, were the remnants of a dream he wasn't supposed to remember, but knew he had had, all the same. The recent, mysterious unease about Hermione seemed to intensify.

What was he supposed to know?

First things first, he had to escape. He absolutely had to.

Draco refocussed, gathered his control about him like a cloak. It was what he was good at. He kept his voice even and calm, even if inside, all he wanted to do was scream and scream until his voice gave out.

"Zabini."

Draco stared at the friend he used to play chess with in second year until the small hours of the morning, at the boy whose life he had saved when a childish dare had turned nearly lethal. He didn't see the sheepish boy who had asked him to keep a secret that afternoon they had awakened together in St Mungos.

What he saw now was a monster. A product of so many wrong things with their world.

"Look at me, Blaise."

Blaise, seemingly caught in the middle of his own dark memories, raised his eyes to Draco.

"You can end this," Draco nodded, not quite pleading, but he put all the will he had left into the performance of his life. "How many people have to die before you can see what you're doing?"

Blaise thumbed his nose. "Not nearly enough at the moment to make me doubt myself. I know what you're doing, Malfoy. We're too much alike."

"You have no idea what you're doing."

"I do," Blaise said, softly. "What's that silly Muggle saying? You need to break a few eggs to make an omelette?"

Draco stared at him in dumbfounded amazement. "_You killed my mother_." He enunciated each word as if to etch it into Blaise's very flesh.

"I know," Blaise said, sadly. "I'm sorry, but it's going to get worse for you before it gets better. Tell me Draco, what do you hold most precious in the world?"

Draco opened his mouth to deliver a smart retort, but what came out was a sound of physical pain. He doubled over, clutching at his midsection as if he'd been punched in the gut.

In that moment, he _knew_. Terror such as he had never known seemed to turn his blood to ice in the space of a heartbeat. He was consumed by it for several seconds.

"_Where is she_?" Draco hissed. He had the look of an injured, caged animal about him. His breathing was ragged and he was looking at Blaise with undiluted, feral, rage.

"Here. With me."

"If you give her to Voldemort, Zabini, I swear to whatever arse-fucked god you pray to, I'll rip your spine out with my bare hands…"

Blaise smirked at him. He had clearly regained control of his emotions in the face of Draco's complete loss of his own. "You and what army?"

Draco snarled and lunged forward in his chains. He got as far as an inch in front of Blaise. Far enough that his breath stirred the other boy's hair. It was a calculated distance, on Blaise's part.

"TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT YOU PSYCHOTIC BASTARD!"

In reply, Blaise walked to the wooden lever and pushed it slowly to the middle setting. There was groaning, the creaking sound of a mechanical contraption not used in a long while.

The end result was that Draco was violently slammed back against the wall, spreadeagled. The back of his head throbbing from the impact and his vision became blurry in his right eye. He stared at Blaise with a mixture of disbelief and rage.

"Why, you offering me something, Malfoy?" Blaise asked, calmly.

"Anything," Draco gasped. "You'll need funds for your cause, yes? Whatever I have, it's yours. You want names, secrets, Ministry secrets, fuel for blackmail, I can get that for you…" he knew he was ranting, but could not stop the words from tumbling out. "You want to Recruit me, go ahead. Voldemort wants me, doesn't he? Let him Mark me. Let _her_ go."

Blaise snorted. "We already have you."

Draco shook his head. "You don't. You want compliance, I can give you that. You do it this way, the only way your piece of shit Dark Lord is going to get me to cooperate is very unwillingly."

Blaise seemed to ponder this last suggestion. Draco felt a tiny spark of hope ignite inside him. "Anything in the world I can give to you, it's yours," he added, hoarsely.

"In exchange for her, I suppose? The filthy Mudblood you swore to hate the moment you learned what she was? "

"Yes," Draco whispered, emphatic. He would not think of Hermione. He would not. He would lose all control if he did. She was safe. Blaise had his own interest in her. Draco could see that now. If nothing else, perhaps that would keep her safe for the moment.

"Anything?"

"Anything at all that's mine to give," Draco repeated, his voice breaking.

"Excellent." Blaise clapped his hands together, looking immensely pleased, as if some great drama had unfolded exactly as he had expected.

He walked up to Draco's tautly stretched body, leaned forward and whispered in his ear. Black hair mingled with white-blond.

"I want to be you," he said, with the type of frenzied awe of a child coming down the stairs to a mountain of unopened presents at Yule. "Do you think you can make that happen?"

Draco drew back and stared at him, stared long and hard and knew that there would be no bargaining with Blaise. There would be no reasoning.

"Her being here is your fault, you know. Wallow in that, Malfoy. I confess that I've harboured more than a passing fancy for our charming, Head Girl, but it was _your_ interest in her that sealed her fate. Oh yes, I know all about your sordid little adventure with Fida Mia."

And with that, Blaise reached into a pocket and drew out a small, wooden box.

He flipped it open for Draco's benefit. Inside, sitting on a bloody wad of tissue, was a pair of eyes.

One was green the other was blue. They were Arne Hendrick's eyes and they seemed to be frozen in a final vision of terror.

"And here I thought you Malfoys _never_ married for love…"

Draco lost his mind.

He trashed and kicked and roared. Three feet of chain slid through rusted iron loops. Each time he lunged he got as far as halfway to where Blaise stood before the chains could go no further. The manacles bit and ground into his wrists until blood ran down his hands and dripped from his fingers.

"Crucio," Blaise said, sounding almost regretful.

**

Hermione was free.

One minute she was struggling under the effects of the Imperious Curse. The next minute, there was a blackout in her head, followed by a brilliant, agonising flash of pain which she recognised to be Cruciatus.

She knew that pain intimately. It had haunted her dreams since fifth year. Even if she arranged to have her memory of having suffered the spell Obliviated, body memory was another thing. Her muscles and nerves remembered, for all that the flash had lasted mere seconds.

To her initial dismay, she found that she had not been able to throw off Blaise's Imperious and she wondered if this came from a lack of practice or whether it said more about the level of magic Blaise was working with.

He had used the spell before. That much was for certain.

The force of it was staggering. She had seen Harry struggle, knew what it cost him to fight the curse. Try as she might, she could not do the same.

And so, during the mad rush from Hogwarts to wherever she was now, in the absence of free will she did the next best thing. She paid attention.

One of the first thoughts that popped into her head when Blaise had taken her prisoner, was that Harry was going to get drawn into proper battle. Finally. The realisation made her want to weep.

Secondly, it occurred to her that Blaise was not following Voldemort's orders to the letter. Whatever those orders may have been, they apparently did not include stealing her away from Hogwarts under Dumbledore's nose.

She knew this because he had _smuggled_ her into the Death Eater hideout. He obviously knew the layout of the place very well. At several points, they had waited behind a wall or rushed along a corridor to prevent being discovered.

To her amazement, he was stashing her in his room like some guilty child trying to keep his new pet away from his parents' notice.

This either boded very well for her or it meant she was in even greater danger due to Blaise's limited ability to protect her from further harm.

That was the other thing. He didn't paw at her again. She supposed it was a small consolation that Blaise considered himself to be cut from better cloth than your run of the mill raping and pillaging, Voldemort follower. Blaise had told her this too, several times.

His ego was indescribable. He did other things that made her skin crawl, though. All through the mad rush from Hogwarts to the hideout, he had rambled on about the future; a new order, a new government and their respective places within this yet-to be community.

She would not hate him forever, he assured. He said that after the necessarily bloody revolution, that the logic of it all would appeal to her. And that talent like theirs would find its rightful place.

Hermione thought Blaise's rightful place was in the secure mental ward at St Mungos, but of course, she was not able to tell him so.

The last realisation came soon after Blaise had shoved her into his room, located at the top floor of the building. There was a pounding at the door. He had put her up against the wall beside the door and transformed from out of breath and flushed, to cool and collected before opening it.

The voice on the other side belonged to someone called 'Travers'.

They had a problem, the man said. Draco Malfoy was here. They had him. Hermione had stood, perfectly still, without a flicker of emotion passing across her face. Inside herself, she had collapsed to the ground.

Harry had been correct. Love was a very risky thing to be afflicted with during a war.

She nearly smiled, thinking that Draco would have preferred the world 'inflicted'. He didn't want her love. He'd tell her he didn't need it.

But he needed her help right now.

Had he come for her? Did the school already know she was missing? It couldn't be. It was all happening too quickly for word to spread that fast.

Blaise had left her standing there, as he went to check his other prize. His parting look was actually very affectionate, delusional madman that he was. Hermione wanted to claw at his face.

She had remained standing against that wall, for hours it seemed. Her heart pounded in her chest. She was unable to scream or cry or move a muscle of her own volition.

And then came the indirect Cruciatus, courtesy of Draco and Fida Mia. Draco was in the building and he was being harmed. One Unforgivable cancelled out the other. Blaise's Imperious dissolved like so much smoke in the face of Hermione's renewed connection with Draco.

With the effects of the curse now gone, it took Hermione a few minutes to calm down long enough to be able to think clearly. All she seemed able to do, for a time, was clutch her hands together and pace.

She only allowed herself the luxury of a few moments of panic, and then she whirled around and began searching Blaise's room for a weapon. It didn't help that Blaise was downright Spartan in his living arrangements at the hideout.

There was a bed, a half empty trunk of clothes and that was it. Where was a sharp-edged something or other when you needed one! Finally, she found a brand new quill at the bottom of the trunk and nearly swooned with relief.

Hermione stashed the thing into the waistband at the back of her skirt. She then walked over to the door and tested the handle. No surprise that Blaise had locked her in.

There was no time to reconsider her plan. What choice did she have? Draco was being tortured nearby and she had the power to do something about it.

Still, it was one thing to be brave in the face of possible death, it was another thing to be a woman, braving possible death. There might have been worse things than Blaise Zabini prowling the dark corridors outside the room.

It didn't matter in the end. Hermione pounded on the door and began to shout.

It was not Travers who came this time. It was Pettigrew who unlocked the door and pulled it open, nearly falling over in shock when he saw her. He stood with his mouth hanging open, looking even more atrocious than when she had last saw him.

"_You!?_" Pettigrew exclaimed with such surprise that Hermione knew her gamble had paid off.

"I think you have a problem, Wormtail," Hermione said.

It didn't take him very long at all to put two and two together. "Zabini! That little fool!"

"You really didn't know he was planning this, did you?" she said, trying to further goad his anger towards Blaise.

Pettigrew was looking at her with new speculation. "My master wants the Malfoy boy. You, on the other, may be an added bonus."

"Maybe," Hermione allowed. "But he's taken me from Hogwarts," she informed. "Right from Dumbledore and Harry Potter. What do you think that's going to achieve?"

Pettigrew had nothing to say to that, but she noted with satisfaction that he did look a bit worried.

"If your Master wants Malfoy alive, then I suggest you check on Zabini. He's killing Draco right this minute. Go and find them if you don't believe me."

"What is this?" It was Travers standing beside Wormtail now. His wand was pointed at her chest. He had an incredulous look on his face, but even as she watched, it changed into a leer as he took in her dishevelled school uniform and wild hair. She couldn't tell if he knew who she was or not.

"What the hell is _that_ doing here?"

"Watch her," was all Wormtail said, through gritted teeth. "I'm going to see about Malfoy."

"You'd better. He stopped screaming about five minutes ago."

Hermione paled when she heard this, but then Travers entered the room and closed the door behind him. She decided that she'd best focus her worries on her own situation, for the moment.

**

Blaise lowered his wand and the torture abruptly ceased. Draco stopped spasaming and gave all his weight to the chains that held him. His flesh was in agony.

There wasn't any, one, specific pain. It was a hundred times worse than the pain in his injured shoulder and it was _everywhere_. It felt like all his skin had come off, all at once.

The pain repeated and repeated itself. He had stopped wishing for death at some point, only because the wish never got granted. If Blaise taunted as he tortured, Draco did not hear him.

Random muscles still twitched from the remnants of the curse as it spent itself in his body. But he was young, he was healthy and already, feeling was returning, senses switching back on.

There were voices. A small man had entered the room. Draco heard him and Blaise argue. He ought to have paid attention to what the argument was about, but something else had just captured his complete focus.

"Hermione…" he croaked, his voice thick with awe and relief.

She was there, yes. She was very afraid, but she was safe for the moment. Her existence flooded his senses, sweet ambrosia that was already dulling the pain.

He swam in his discovery, smiled and then he shook with silent laughter.

How typical. It had taken _torture_ to make him finally accept how he felt.

Blaise and the smaller man stopped and stared at him as if Cruciatus had broken his mind.

**

He was alone.

No, he was never alone. Not since Graduation. Not since Fida Mia.

Draco had no idea how long he hung there for. Ten minutes? An hour? Two hours?

His head dropped to his chest and he remained unmoving.

**

He was not alone.

Draco was half unconscious and thus, didn't notice that someone had entered the room. A tall, dark figure in the periphery of his vision. Or maybe it was just his imagination being cheeky again?

Might be that his imaginary mother had taken his advice to heart and had changed into less ridiculous attire, before making another hazy, dreamtime visit.

Or it might just have been Blaise returning to inflict more damage. Draco's mind may have still been mush, but his body protested the threat of more Cruciatus. He began to thrash.

Strong hands caught hold of his waist and pulled him up. He smelled and felt leather. A gloved hand gently tipped his head back.

_Not mum, then_, he realised. Imaginary or not, she was a dainty thing and would not be hauling him about as if he weighed nothing.

His eyes opened and when his vision cleared up somewhat, Draco was absolutely astounded to find himself looking into the dark grey eyes of Lucius Malfoy.

"Father?" he wheezed. He couldn't have been more surprised if Salazar Slytherin himself had showed up to rescue him.

Lucius pulled down the hood of his cloak. "Your godfather sends his regards, and hopes that you will survive long enough so that he can personally end your life for being this foolhardy."

Draco could not recall seeing his father look so alive. His long hair was pulled back into a tight braid. He was dressed in black flying robes and gloves. There was wrath in his eyes.

It was good to see, because for once Draco knew this was not directed towards him.

He could only gawk in amazement.

Lucius took this all in stride. He had just finished examining the gash on his son's forehead before moving to Draco's mangled wrists with a grimace. He produced a wand and quickly sliced several strips of material from his own cloak.

"What did you think to accomplish by tearing your hands off?"

Draco's voice was paper thin and just as dry. "It couldn't be helped, what with the torture and all."

Lucius made a noncommittal sound as he tied off the bandages.

"How did you-"

"Questions best saved for later," Lucius interrupted. He took a step back. "Can you stand, boy?"

"I…Yes."

"Then do so."

After a moment's hesitation, Draco leant back heavily against the stone wall and braced himself. Lucius walked to the lever and pulled it all the way towards him. He seemed to know what he was doing. The chains holding Draco suddenly went slack, clattering to the floor. Draco may have spoken too soon because no sooner was he free, did his legs give way. His father lunged forward to catch him.

"The girl is two floors up," Lucius informed, as he propped his son against the wall once more and removed the manacles. "Use your legs. The numbness will pass." He sounded like an authority on the subject.

Draco wondered if that was because he knew what it was like to experience Cruciatus firsthand, or because he had a great deal of experience inflicting it.

"Blaise Zabini is the Recruiter. He's just about lost the plot." Draco attempted to roll the agony out of his shoulders.

"So I hear. Take this."

Draco looked down in his bandaged hand to find a wand there. Not his wand. Not his father's either, but a wand, nonetheless. Perhaps they would get out of this alive, after all.

"Don't you need this?" His father was right. The more he used his legs, the better they worked.

"No," said Lucius. They both knew he was lying.

"What are you going to do?" Draco asked.

"To talk to your aunt."

It was said so casually. A man speaking to his sister-in-law sounded perfectly normal, only both were wanted criminals and one had happened to order the assassination of the other's wife.

"She killed mum," Draco blurted. "Zabini was carrying out Bellatrix's orders. He admitted it to me."

His father hadn't been aware of the fact. Something that resembled grief flickered across his hard, handsome face. But it was there and gone too quickly for Draco to marvel over.

There was regret, though. Regret wasn't an expression, per se, but it was the sum of all Lucius was doing for his only child, now.

The elder Malfoy glanced outside the doorway to check that it was clear. "Depending on how this goes, I might not be coming back."

_And what the fuck did that mean_? Draco felt like he was in fifth year all over again. To make matters worse, there was a damnable prickling sensation at the back of his eyes.

If he lost it now, his father was probably going to snort in disgust and leave.

"Pay attention," Lucius ordered. "I gather they are currently occupied seeing to Bellatrix's arrival, if she isn't here already. Draco?"

He was remembering his mother's words ..._we don't have a lot of time, so you need to listen to me very carefully..._

The dream! He remembered it now. Something about light being important….

"The captive Auror will prove more difficult," his father was saying. "I was not able to access the room where she is being kept. Her cell is magic-barred. You will need one of them to open it for you. I will arrange a distraction, at which point I suspect they will send the girl to the dungeons to keep her out of the way. Be ready. If you are unable to free the Auror, do not hesitate to leave without her. Ministry law enforcement will arrive shortly and if Andromeda Tonks was anything to go by, her daughter is likely to outlive us all. Head back to Hogwarts via the way you came. You'll be safe once you're there." "Hogwarts," Draco nodded, lamely.

"_Son_." Lucius voice was urgent.

Draco stared at him. _Yes, I'm paying attention_, he meant to say, but stopped short at Lucius' dark, weighted gaze.

There was a great, long, emotion-laden pause.

"Do what you will with the Manor. It's yours. I only ask that you leave my study as it is. I'm…partial to that room."

And with that, Lucius Malfoy was gone. To have a chat with Bellatrix Lestrange, presumably; the only other person on the planet who was probably crazier than Blaise Zabini.

_It's official_, Draco thought, as he sprinted down the corridor, towards the stairs, on legs that were still very wobbly.

_The world's just spun off its God-damned axis_


	44. Chapter 44

**Chapter Forty-Four**

Ron was wearing bright, white trainers, with reflective, silver streaks down the sides. It was very dark and what little moonlight there was, was currently hidden behind passing clouds.

Still, Lupin wanted to slap the boy in the back of the head.

"Budge up, a bit," Lupin whispered to Harry, who was squatting in between Ron and Lupin.

Harry did as requested and watched as Lupin transfigured Ron's shoes into a pair of black, lace up boots.

"Sorry. I didn't think…" Ron muttered, staring down at the new façade of his more appropriate footwear. They still felt like his comfy, old trainers.

"Shh!" Moody said, from somewhere in front of them. "Someone's coming."

Harry counted nine of them. All were wearing different variations of dark-coloured, hooded cloaks. The amount of noise they made as they walked out of the trees and into the clearing in front of the old, stone fort showed just how confident they felt about the security of the hideout. Two of them were talking excitedly. A third was trying to carry on a conversation with someone behind him and was not watching his footing on the uneven ground. He stumbled once and nearly fell. There was laughing.

If these were indeed Death Eaters, they were unlike any Harry had ever encountered before. He was thinking what a sorry lot of criminals they were, when the smaller, cloaked figure at the head of the rabble spun around and removed his hood.

_Her_ hood, Harry silently corrected. Cloud was no longer obscuring the moonlight and the pale face of the woman was revealed in sharp relief against her dark clothing and even darker hair.

Bellatrix Lestrange glared at the small group behind her. They ceased their talking and proceeded with more sobriety.

Harry didn't realise he had stood up from his hiding spot deep in the trees, his right hand gripping his wand so tightly it seemed a miracle the thing didn't snap in his palm. Rage became a perceptible, static charge that swirled around his fingertips.

One of the Aurors behind him swore softly. Suddenly, Harry felt Lupin's heavy, firm hand on his shoulder. A second later, that same hand yanked him back down.

"Do not make me regret bringing the two of you!" Lupin hissed.

Harry felt dazed and not a little stupid. He exchanged a sheepish look with Ron and then returned his attention on the procession of Death Eaters making their way into the building.

The rage dissipated and after blinking a few times, he no longer saw Sirius' face when he closed his eyes.

"What is this place?" Ron asked Lupin, once Bellatrix and her companions had entered.

"Some sort of safe house, I'm guessing. There are a number scattered through Europe. We do our best to find them and burn them to the ground, but Riddle's still got a fair few that are unaccounted for," Lupin explained.

It was at least gratifying to note that he looked the same way Harry was feeling. Seeing Bellatrix had done something to him as well.

Harry turned to look at Moody, who was spinning a tiny, white whirlwind in his open palm. The wind condensed into a blue and white sphere. With amazement, Harry could slowly make out continents and oceans, all in miniature.

"What's that?" he asked.

"Global Positioning Spell," grinned a female Auror from the shadows behind Moody.

"The portkey in that tree has taken us to Wales, from the looks of it," Moody informed them.

He squinted closely at the tiny, glowing, red dot on the makeshift globe. His magical eye spun around twice, as if it had a problem focussing in the poor light. Moody grunted. "Can't make that out."

Lupin peered at it. He had no problems seeing in the dark. "North Wales. Looks like we're in Anglesey."

"Loriage!" Moody called out.

The female Auror came forward and Moody passed her the smoky orb, which was still spinning slowly. It deflated like a balloon as she syphoned it into her wand.

"Take that location back to Hogwarts. Dumbledore will at least be pleased to know we're still in the neighbourhood."

"Good hunting," Loriage whispered to them and then disappeared into the trees. A very faint crack of Disapparition could be heard moments later.

Moody turned to his team, now comprising of eight Aurors, Remus Lupin, the Boy Who Lived and the Minister of Magic's youngest son.

"Lupin and Huggins, when there's an opening, you're on retrieval. Anyone and everyone they're keeping prisoner in there, you bring 'em out. First floor and anything you find below."

"What about us?" Harry asked.

"Tanner, Quartermaine. The two of you take the top floors. Tag each area once it's secured."

"Protocol?" Quartermaine asked curtly. Everyone looked expectantly at Moody.

Moody accordingly directed his reply to the entire group. "Kill or capture unless you're the exceptionally lucky bastard that manages to corner Lestrange. I don't care how you do it, but you bring that bitch in alive. We have her, we have Voldemort."

"What about us?" Harry repeated.

"What about you?" Moody threw back at him. He resumed barking additional orders to Quartermaine.

"We're going in for Hermione!"

Moody turned to growl at Harry. "Boy, just because you know which is the business end of a wand doesn't mean I'm letting you get in the way of my people doing their work! Stay down and shut up and I might just give you something useful to do!"

This was new to Harry, who realised just how accustomed he was to issuing orders in his comparatively limited experience in embarking on dangerous missions. It seemed a minor miracle that he and Ron had been allowed to come in the first place.

And so, with some effort, he held on to his tongue.

Lupin turned to the boys before he left with Astrid. He squeezed the top of Harry's arm hard enough to leave a bruise. "I want you to stay close to Moody. Alright? Listen to me, the two of you. Be on guard, no matter who you see. Even if it's Malfoy, do you hear me?"

"Yeah," Harry said, the sting from Moody's dismissal dissolved in the face of this new worry. He had an insane urge to hold on to Lupin just as tightly so that he wouldn't leave. "Please be careful," Harry whispered.

He wouldn't blink. If he did, he knew he'd see Sirius.

Remus replied with a decidedly scary smile. Harry had no idea the man had that much teeth. The word, Harry thought with a shiver, was most definitely 'wolfish'.

"We'll be back," was all he said. And then he and Astrid were gone, melting away into the darkness.

Harry turned to Ron, whom Harry had just noticed was being unusually quiet.

"Ron?"

"I'm fine," Ron nodded, a bit too jerkily. "It's just…well it's finally come to this, then."

Harry tried to suppress the searing, liquid hate that seemed to be pumping through his veins in place of blood. "It came to this the day they made me an orphan. If anything's happened to Hermione, I-" Harry could barely get the words out. "She's _family_, Ron."

Ron suddenly looked much older than his seventeen years. "She's fine. She has to be."

**

The man was a heavy breather.

In Blaise's room at the Death Eater barracks, Hermione sat on the edge of the bed and warily watched as Travers watched her.

Watched her and _breathed_. With any luck, he was a chain smoking emphysemic who couldn't climb a flight of stairs without stopping to catch his breath. That would make kicking him in the balls and making a run for it all the more easier.

Not that it was likely to be easy in the first place. Honestly, she was very close to losing her composure altogether.

"You're the Mudblood, aren't you? Potter's Mudblood."

It didn't really sound like a question and so she was more than happy to continue ignoring him. The quill she kept in the back of her skirt tickled her. She focussed on the sensation and what little comfort the unlikely weapon provided.

"You look different than your pictures. I have a few, you know," he nodded. "Cuttings. Got 'em in a book. I like to keep informed what with being away so much. I've been in this pisshole for eight months now. Spent most of that time on me own. "

That would explain why he seemed to enjoy talking to himself. She really didn't need to hear about his Death Eater scrapbook or Voldemort's dismal employment package.

Also, he was staring at her chest in a way which made Ron's indiscreet ogling seem downright angelic. For a moment, Hermione contemplated taking the blanket off Blaise's bed and wrapping it around her, but that would only expose the bed and she also didn't need to give Travers any _ideas_.

"You're in seventh year at Hogwarts, so that makes you what…seventeen?"

_Eighteen actually. Now why don't you be a good henchman and go and see what's keeping Blaise and Pettigrew._

Out loud she said, "You know you're going to go to Azkaban for a very long time if you're caught. People are looking for me."

He shook his head at her. It wasn't stubbornness, which would have been more reassuring, it was worse. It was confidence. She sincerely hoped it was misplaced.

"They won't catch us."

Hermione seriously disapproved of the way he said, 'us'.

And yet the sounds beyond the door were getting louder. Footsteps, shouting, instructions. The noise of big, iron hinges moving. Bolted doors sliding open. Something was happening out there. Hermione wondered if help was indeed arriving or if what she was hearing was merely Death Eater reinforcements.

The latter idea left her feeling faint.

She had no idea if she was still impervious to the Imperious curse and had no desire to have Travers test the theory. Let him think she was meek and compliant. If he decided to get too close, she'd go for his groin and then his wand.

At least that was the plan.

Draco was out there somewhere on his own.

It hadn't taken her long to work out that he was alive, if not entirely in one piece. If she really concentrated, she could feel a hammering in her chest that was twice the rate of her own heartbeat. She imagined putting two fingertips to the side of her neck and feeling a twin set of pulses. Wherever he was, he was on the move and he was close.

"Zabini isn't going to last, you know. That little upstart thinks he's bred to higher concerns. If you're interested in a favourite, the smart money is on me."

Now this was interesting. Hermione gave the man her full attention, which she was gratified to see, made him a fraction less smug. Who would have thought that all that time spent attempting to intimidate naughty junior Slytherins would finally pay off?

Or maybe it was just all the time spent in Draco's company. One undoubtedly picked up a few traits.

"And who might you be?"

He grinned, revealing a set of teeth that belonged in a Dickens story. The child of dentists knew these things.

"I'm the one you need to be nice to right now, girly."

"Let me out of this room and I swear I won't tell the authorities about your involvement. It's not too late."

"Is that you begging, then?" the man's smarmy grin looked set in concrete.

He wished. "You wish."

"Good. I like a bit of sass."

For a moment, Hermione thought he said 'ass' and nearly blanched.

There was an explosion in the floor above. The very foundations of the building seem to shake. Dust peppered down from the rafters. Hermione waved a hand in front of her face to clear the air as she squinted at the door.

Travers had wrenched it open to take a look outside.

"Merlin…"

"What is it?" Hermione asked, momentarily forgetting that she was afraid.

"Get up!" he ordered, even as he wrenched her towards him and hauled her out into the corridor.

"Where are we going?" she demanded, digging in her heels. "Where are you taking me?"

Hermione thought he might hit her then, but he shoved a fist in her hair and dragged her along by it. The pain made her eyes water. "Keep your mouth shut and move!"

Travers had pulled her halfway down the corridor by the time Hermione whipped out the quill she had been hiding and rammed its sharp, unused tip into Travers' right hand. The force of the stab successfully buried the nib an inch below his thumb, before she twisted the shaft and snapped it off.

He howled like an injured dog and this time, he really did swing his fist at her. She ducked and made an attempt to sprint for the stairs. Travers had been expecting this and stuck his foot out to trip her.

Hermione staggered backwards towards the door when he hit her with a Petrificus Partialus. Her legs froze under her and she barely had time to roll to her side before falling painfully to the floor.

When she opened her eyes, she was being roughly pulled up under her arms. "You're going to regret that," he breathed wetly against her ear. "_Later_."

The bottom half of her body from the waist down was frozen in place, but her arms were not. Hermione reached around to claw at his face. If he had any hair, she would have pulled it.

"STOP THAT!" He shook her violently until her teeth clicked together and then trapped both her wrists in one of his hands. He squeezed so hard she cried out and went to her knees. "Try that again and I'll snap your neck," he threatened. "Zabini can go and find himself another plaything."

No denying he was in a bit of a panic. Whatever he thought was happening upstairs or outside was not good news for the Death Eaters. The thought filled Hermione with hope.

He carried her down several rickety looking flights of stairs and then continued dragging her along with him when they finally reached an underground level. The air turned stale and damp.

There was a single torch at the end of the curving, stone corridor. Next to it was a set of thick, iron bolted doors. There was a different feel to that floor. The air felt more complex. The light from the torch seemed to bend and warp in an unnatural way.

Wards were at work, Hermione realised. Unlike the upstairs which was dilapidated ruins, _this_ was an important area.

Hermione had the sinking feeling that if Travers got her past those doors, it was likely she would never return.

Rescue mission or not. She would never see Harry or Ron again, or her parents.

And Draco would be alone.

She was set to fight him with everything she had left in her, when a familiar voice made her freeze.

"_Let her go._"

Draco was standing behind them, some twenty feet away. It looked like he'd been waiting there. There was a thick wooden balustrade to his left. This was the only cover he had and Hermione was insane with worry that Travers would try his luck with a spell before anything further was said.

Hermione soaked up the sight of him.

Blood was streaming down the right side of his face, his feet were braced apart and it was obvious that he was favouring his right leg where a horrid looking gash showed through a rip in his trousers.

He looked like he'd just been through hell and back. Bloodied or not. She was so ridiculously happy to see him that she started to cry.

Travers responded by shoving his forearm under her chin and propped her back up. The force of the grip cut off her air. Hermione coughed and choked as she pulled at his arm.

Both men kept their wands trained on each other. The only difference was that Draco's arm was visibly shaking from the effort. Travers was well and wholly contained.

Draco hadn't looked at her yet and Hermione couldn't look away.

**

He couldn't look at Hermione, _wouldn't_ look at her. If he did, Draco was sure he'd march down to the son of a bitch that was nearly choking her and beat the man to death with his fists.

Cruciatus was a fucked up spell. The effects were taking a while to wear off completely. His entire body felt like it was made of little springs that were going off at odd intervals.

The Death Eater scum didn't need to know that, however. Draco took a limping step forward and tried to keep his knees steady. A fresh line of blood cut through from his hairline down to his jaw and dripped onto his black shirt collar.

"Let her go before I blast a hole through your skull," Draco repeated. It was more hiss than speech. He meant every word.

Travers bared his teeth. "You try it, you little shit!"

The man wasn't stupid. He had no cover standing where he was and was subsequently holding Hermione in front of him as both shield and deterrent. That was his leverage. He hurled the first hex.

Draco leapt for the beam, flattening himself behind it. Smoky streams of red and black flew over his head.

Several curses hit the beam and charred the wood where it struck. Draco gritted his teeth. He only had once chance to get this right and he was _not_ going to mess it up.

"She's not part of the plan! Forget Zabini! You know he's gone too far this time! LET HER GO!" Draco shouted above the spell fire.

The spells kept coming, but he couldn't keep the attack up forever. Not while holding on to a struggling Hermione and attempting to get the dungeon doors open at the same time.

There was a lull. The man was making his move. Draco could hear the heavy bolt sliding out of its cradles and magical locks springing open from the other side.

The dungeon was magic-barred, his father had said. It was now or never. In ten seconds, Hermione was going to be beyond his reach and quite possibly beyond the reach of whoever was currently attempting a rescue.

And if that happened, his heart was going to stop inside his chest.

Seekers were not known for their extraordinary aim, but it was also a little known fact that Draco had originally tried for the position of Chaser. It was only because of Harry, that Draco had eventually accepted the Seeker position Marcus Flint had offered him.

Draco's aim was very, very good, even after an extended session of Cruciatus.

He sent the Laceratus Hex towards Travers' shoulder and would have hit that particular target if Travers hadn't turned his head at the last second to see where Draco was.

At first, Draco thought that he had missed, that the spell hadn't really hit him at all, but then Travers fell forward to his knees. Released from Travers' hold and from Petrificus, Hermione slid to the ground. A thin red line welted up diagonally across the man's neck.

He made a garbled noise and blindly reached out for Hermione as his wand clattered to the ground. The thin line became a torrent of red. Blood didn't so much pour out as _spurt_ out of Travers' severed carotid artery. It was _everywhere_.

On the stone floor. On the walls. A good portion had sprayed over Hermione. She scrambled backwards from the small, dark pool that was forming on the stone floor, looking ready to gag.

Draco's gentle touch on her shoulder startled her. For a moment, she stared up at him with a look he never wanted to see on her face ever again, but then sense returned quickly. The light of sanity returned to her eyes and with a sound of distress, she attempted to wipe Travers' blood from her face.

He had no idea where his cloak had gone, but Draco suspected it was lying at the bottom of a broken staircase. Ignoring the searing pain in his injured thigh, he knelt down beside her. He quickly unbuttoned his shirt, scrunched it up and started wiping the blood off Hermione's face. He forgot how quickly the stuff dried.

Smearing it around made it worse, he ought to have dabbed at it instead. He did so, clumsily.

When it was done, he dropped the soiled garment and shuddered.

He had killed a man.

Hermione looked dazed. "Is he dead?" she whispered, looking down at the contorted form of the Death Eater.

Draco swallowed convulsively. "Don't look."

She was still largely unresponsive. He awkwardly pushed some of the hair off her face and then ran his palms up and down her upper arms. He had no idea who he was comforting, him or her or the both of them.

She was alright. She hadn't been hurt or killed or worse. Perhaps he could breathe now. He was sure his lungs had forgotten how to function.

"Granger," Draco croaked, suddenly feeling winded. His hand was clenched in the hem of her school blouse, just like he had done when she had walked away from him in the Quidditch supply shed the previous day.

He realised he wasn't quite done being the most terrified he'd ever been in his relatively short life.

Draco needed her to look at him.

His obvious distress seemed to bring her out of her own state. Sill on their knees, Hermione crawled into his arms.

Draco had no idea what he mumbled. It was him at his most inarticulate. There were a few Oh My Gods in between asking her if she was hurt over and over again. He cheek was pressed against his bare chest and he knew she was listening to the sound of his heartbeat. It was all reassuring stuff.

He wanted to pull her into his skin and keep her there, safe and oblivious to the dangers all around them. Her small, hands held him to her tightly, clutching over the bare skin of his tattoo. When she slid her palms down to take his hands, they were so warm, they burned. That too, was reassuring.

And still he couldn't give her the words, could not, rather than would not. She would beggar him, with this staggering, debilitating love of hers. The currencies he relied on – his wit, his pedigree, his name and his fortune - it all counted for _nothing_ with Granger.

If he went to her, all he had to offer was himself. Everything he had been brought up to believe was good and worthwhile and important now seemed like a big, pile of Goblin gold. Pretty to look at, but always disappointing it its ephemerality.

What was the purity of your blood worth when your heart or soul was a dark, diseased mess? How could anyone want him just for him? It was inconceivable.

But Granger did. She would have him and he would become less than he was and maybe at the end of the day, that was alright. Maybe Granger, closet romantic that she was, with her idealism and optimism and innate goodness, was the wise man's definition of 'wealth'.

If that was the case than he was the richest man in the world.

"I should have known he wasn't you. It took me too long to realise that," Granger was telling him. She sounded extremely cross with herself.

Draco assumed she was referring to Blaise. He realised he was rather cross with her too. "Yes, you should have known."

She was staring up at him in wonder. "How did you get here so quickly?"

He was so gratified to see the fear leaving her eyes that he kissed her on the forehead, pleased with her resilience. "I'll explain later. We're leaving after we find Tonks and Goyle."

"Tonks!" Hermione gasped. "She's alive then?"

"For the moment," Draco supplied. "What about Goyle? Granger, have you seen Goyle anywhere?"

The tone of his voice spoke volumes about why he needed to know.

She shook her head. "No. I'm sorry, I haven't."

"Okay." Draco ran a hand through his hair and then grimaced when his bloodied hand encountered equally blood-encrusted hair.

He pulled her against the wall, suddenly aware that they were in full sight of anyone who chanced to appear at the other end of the corridor.

"Stay close to me and keep to the shadows. If anything happens, you run. If you can't do that, you hide until it's safe to come out. Got that?"

Hermione glared at him. "This is not the time to play hero!" she said, angrily.

"Do as I say!"

"It might surprise you to know that I've actually been in situations like this a few times! Probably more so than you!"

"It doesn't surprise me, it terrifies me," he whispered back, much more gently.

That immediately sobered her. Not too long ago she had been out of her mind with worry for him, after all. Hermione nodded in understanding and the movement caused a fat tear to slip down her cheek. Draco knew Hermione didn't realise she had started crying the moment he had found her.

Tears were the only thing that gave any indication that she had been afraid. Her brown eyes were all purposefulness now.

_This is what Potter sees_, Draco thought, feeling a surge of irrational, badly timed jealously.

"What were you planning?" she asked. He was prickled by the scepticism in her voice. The girl's ego was nearly a match for his.

Besotted though he may be, he was no Harry Potter and would not be pulling off an incredibly stupid act of Gryffindorish bravery.

Such as capturing Blaise, for example, as much as the thought appealed.

Bugger the Ministry. The Aurors could hunt down Zabini on their own, thank you very much. He was getting Hermione and his purple-haired cousin safely out of there, with or without Goyle.

"My father is here," he chosen then to inform. It was still unbelievable, for all that Lucius had held him and spoken to him in the flesh.

"WHAT?!"

"I know. Don't ask. I have _no_ idea how, but I suspect Snape had something to do with it. That explosion you just heard was probably the distraction he promised me."

He took hold of her hand. "Now, we're going to find Tonks and then the three of us are getting the fuck out of here. Agreed?" he asked. He knew her well enough to know that asking for her compliance was much quicker than simply demanding it.

She gripped his hand just as tightly. "Agreed."

**

People were coming. Goyle could hear wand fire just beyond the charmed entrance doors to the dungeon.

There was shouting. Fuck. Were they already inside? He was too late, he had waited too long to free the Auror.

Free she was, in any case. It had taken him ages to take down all the spells without tripping any of the alarms that warded the dungeons. The level of skill involved was quite frankly, beyond him, but he had made a point of memorising everything Blaise did each time he had accompanied the other boy to the dungeons.

For one horrible moment, the password hadn't worked and Goyle was sure he was about to get splinched by the dungeon's defence system, but then there was a hiss, as if compressed air had been released, and the bolts on the other side of the door had slipped free.

Getting Tonks' cell door open was markedly easier. She came flying out.

"Do I hit this with you now or later?" she asked dryly, holding aloft the slab of stone Goyle had given her earlier.

"Plans gone to shit," he blurted.

She blinked and dropped the stone. "Yes, I know. I can hear it."

It was probably time to tell her the other news. She wasn't going to like it. "Hermione Granger and Draco have been taken prisoner. I found out just before I left to come here."

Aurors were a tough breed, Goyle thought. Tonks processed this bit of dire news with nothing more than a grim expression.

"Are they in once piece?"

Draco? Goyle swallowed. Probably not. Granger? He couldn't be sure.

"Yes." he extrapolated.

"Right, well you run along then. I'm not leaving here without them."

That was what he had been counting on. Time for the other bad news. "Bellatrix Lestrange is also here with the Death Eater recruits from Beaubaxtons and Durmstrang," Goyle informed

Her mouth formed a thin line. "Where?" she whispered.

"The Recruits are being kept in a room on the top floor. That's where I'm supposed to be. As far as I can guess, Bellatrix was about to start the interviews when the east wall came down. Wormtail is missing."

She was thinking quickly. Goyle thought how very much she looked like Hermione Granger in that moment. She was wearing a small frown and an expression that said no problem was insurmountable if enough brainpower was applied.

"We'll find the kids first."

Goyle was confused for one moment before he worked out she was referring to Draco and Granger. He strode to the dungeon entrance and spoke the same password that would set the wards on pause.

Tonks stood back as the six sets of locks were undone and then Goyle swung the heavy doors open.

There was a feminine gasp, but it didn't come from Tonks. Goyle stared in open mouthed astonishment at Hermione Granger and Draco, who Goyle couldn't help but notice, had a wand pointed squarely at Goyle's face.

Chapter End Notes:

The 'good hunting' line from Loriage is from Battlestar Galactica. Just cos.


	45. Chapter 45

**Chapter Forty-Five**

Draco shoved Hermione behind him as soon as they became aware that the dungeon entrance was about to open.

There was a couple of seconds of predictable protest before she did as she was told. Stubborn as she was, she was aware that he was holding on to their only wand, their only means of defence.

"Draco," she whispered worriedly, as the door started to swing open.

"Be ready," he replied, pushing them backwards a little.

He felt her tense exhalation of breath at his bare shoulder. The heavy, opening doors connected with Travers' body and this resulted in a rather nasty, bloody smear, as the body was picked up by the momentum of the door and pushed to the wall.

Draco raised the wand, Stupefy poised on his lips.

The spell was just about to leave his mouth when he saw not Blaise or Bellatrix or worse, Voldemort, but Goyle. Behind him was Tonks, who looked like she was having about as much trouble as Hermione, trying to cautiously wait on the sideline.

"THANK MERLIN!" Tonks practically shoved Goyle out of the way, which was no mean feat.

She was about to envelop Hermione in a hug when she stopped short at the sheer amount of blood on the younger girl.

"Not mine," Hermione rushed to inform, as she completed the hug. "I'm fine. Thanks to Draco."

Tonks pulled away to stare at Draco in wonder. "Cousin, this rescue is your doing?"

Draco was eyeballing Goyle something fierce. "Not to begin with, but it is now."

"And that is _your_ blood, I'm assuming." Tonks reached up to inspect the gash on Draco's forehead.

He ducked, avoiding her questing hand. "Unfortunately, yes."

"He needs treatment," Hermione said, more urgently. Her eyes were enormous in her ashen face.

Goyle cleared his throat. "Ahem. Sorry to interrupt the happy reunion, but the rescue portion of this evening isn't quite finished yet. You three need to leave," he stared hard at Tonks, Hermione and Draco. "_Now_."

Draco glared at him. "That's four, you git. Including you."

Tonks sighed. "Save your breath. I tried that already. He's not biting."

"Have you lost your mind, Greg?" Draco asked. The expression on his face said it was a foregone conclusion.

Goyle went red. "Leave off. This is not up for discussion. I know what I'm doing, alright?"

"This is because of Pansy isn't it?" Draco laughed bitterly. "Of all the stupid, half-arsed reasons to become a Death Eater! You're having delusions of adequacy, my friend."

It was quite a sight to see Gregory Goyle snap. For all his bulk, he was not a violent person unless by requirement or extreme provocation. Hermione had of course witnessed it before, though usually in heated arguments with opposing Quidditch players after a match. Never against Draco. Not ever.

He moved surprisingly quickly for so large a boy, or maybe it was just the fact that Draco made no move to resist. Draco was pushed against the wall while Goyle shoved his hefty forearm under Draco's chin.

Both boys regarded each other with animosity.

"Easy now," Tonks warned, but she didn't move to intervene and even put an arm out when Hermione stepped forward.

"And what if I am doing all this for Pansy? Tell me what I have to look forward to after Hogwarts, Draco. No money, no connections, no prospects. No future."

"_Take your hands off me_," Draco spoke, whisper soft. "I came here for you, you ungrateful bastard."

Something flickered behind Goyle's dark eyes. The bluster left him, leaving behind a very weary young man. "I thank you. It was very foolish of you, but thanks all the same." He released Draco and turned to stare at Tonks and Hermione. "Now, if you'll allow me to pay back this good deed, I'd like to see the three of you home safely."

**

They made their way towards the staircase, led by Goyle. Draco declined assistance from Goyle, despite the fact that he was having trouble walking. He did, however, maintain a firm grip on Hermione's hand.

Goyle told them to wait at the foot of the steps while he went upstairs to see if the ground floor corridor was clear.

"Who the hell is the brains behind this?" Tonks demanded.

It was Draco who answered her. "Blaise Zabini. He's the Recruiter. The little wanker also happens to be a Metamorphmagus."

Tonks' amazement was apparent. "Zabini! Would never have guessed!"

"I think that was the general idea."

Tonks turned to Hermione next. "What on earth are you doing here? Did you come with Malfoy?"

Hermione shook her head. "Blaise brought me here." She then started at her husband pointedly.

"If you're implying I broke my promise to you, imply no more. This has nothing to do with my mother. I came here for Goyle, remember?" Draco said.

"You're here on a mission without telling me. This is hardly any different!"

"It is _completely_ different," he hissed in response.

Hermione wondered at what point both her hands had became fused to her hips. She scowled at him. "Don't be dumb on purpose, Malfoy. It doesn't look good on you."

"As opposed to being dumb via an accident of birth? Oh, I can tell it's done wonders for Weasley."

Tonks was staring at them with a speculative expression. "You two are worse than Lupin and Snape. And Draco, what in heaven's name is the matter with your mother?"

"She's _dead_, is the matter. Blaise killed her three months ago under Bellatrix Lestrange's orders." Draco's voice was emotionless.

"No," Tonks gasped. "That can't be."

"Sure it can," Draco sneered. "You have met our families, haven't you?"

"So it's turning out to be Blaise after all," Hermione concluded grimly. The clever, conscientious boy she had befriended a year ago was non-existent. He had never been. She sucked in a fortifying breath and looked at Tonks.

"We have to get word to the authorities before he disappears for good."

Further conversation was stalled by the appearance of Goyle's shaved head at the top of the stairs. "It's clear! Come quickly!"

Tonks went up first, pausing midway up the first flight of steps. Draco was having difficulty lifting his injured leg.

The pain showed clearly on his face as he pulled himself up using the creaky railing. The railing buckled and for a moment, they all thought the entire banister was going to dislodge and fall off.

"Damn," he said, squeezing his eyes shut. His voice was strained. The right leg of his black pants was stained dark with blood. "Granger, give me a minute. You go on ahead."

Hermione was instantly guilty for arguing with him, moments before. She sent a pleading look up at Tonks.

"Can't we do something?"

Goyle was still hanging over the banister. "We have to move now!"

Making an executive decision, Tonks reached down to grab Draco by the forearm. With Hermione's assistance, they got him up the stairs, Tonks pulling, Hermione pushing.

"Give me that," Tonks said, snatching the wand that Draco was holding. She sliced a strip of cloth from her dungeon-wear and fashioned a tourniquet.

"I can use a suture charm on this now, but it's going to make your leg useless for a minimum of ten minutes, depending on how deep that wound is."

Draco was gritting his teeth as Tonks tightly tied off the strip off cloth. "Do it later."

"Before or after you bleed to death?" Tonks asked dryly.

"Hide! Someone's coming," Goyle suddenly warned.

The four of them flattened themselves against the staircase wall, hidden in the shadows. There were quick, urgent footsteps at the head of the corridor. They were getting closer. There wasn't much time to adjust their hiding positions. Tonks was crouched at Goyle's feet, while Draco pulled Hermione against his chest. She was warm, trembling and blessedly alive.

Holding her close to him did wonders for his constitution. He released an appreciative sigh and then dropped his hand from her waist, to squeeze her bottom lightly.

Hermione gave a little jolt and raised her eyes to stare at him incredulously in the darkness. Already half dead from blood loss and in danger of being all dead, only Draco would think to _grope_ her.

"You're barmy, you know that?"

He managed a weak smile. "Only since I married you."

Hermione looked down at Tonks and saw that she had put a finger to her lips. Tonks raised the wand and soundlessly cast a spell. It took Hermione a moment to work out that they were being enveloped by a concealing glamour. It felt like a cloud of warm air had descended over them.

When she looked up at Draco, she saw that the rough, grey image of the wall behind them seemed to ripple over his face like a liquid blanket.

They remained absolutely still.

Whoever it was passed by them at a run, taking the stairs to the upper floors without realising they were there. Goyle prudently waited a moment before stepping out from under the glamour. At his movement, it dissipated and the air became cool once more.

"Nice," he said to Tonks.

"Amazing what the Auror Academy can teach you, isn't it?" she told him. The hint was sadly lost on him.

"The west exit is that way," he said, pointing to the left of the corridor. "Keep to the trees once you get out."

The sounds outside were growing steadily louder. It sounded like a full-fledged battle was underway. There were blasting noises and shouting and the smaller, more minor explosions. The rescue was obviously coming to a point.

"What's happening here this evening?" Draco asked Goyle with new interest. "I mean, why is Bellatrix visiting in the first place?"

The two friends regarded each other seriously. "For the same reason I'm here. Bellatrix is selecting Death Eater Recruits."

"Recruits? They're all here now?"

Goyle hesitated before he nodded. "Yes. On this floor."

Draco's pretty eyes narrowed. "Show me."

Hermione shook her head. "We don't have time for this." She looked to Tonks for support. Unfortunately, she found none.

Tonks had a similar, sharpish look in her eyes. "Sorry Hermione, but personally, I'd like to see what Voldemort thinks is going to win the war for him. Lead the way, you," she said to Goyle. It was more order than request. "Quickly!"

With a long-suffering look, Goyle obliged her. Hermione had no choice but to follow, despite her reservations.

The room in question was a third of the way down the corridor and it was unlocked. She wondered why the young men seemed content to remain inside but then Goyle answered her question.

"Their wands have been taken from them," Goyle explained, not bothering to hide his disdain.

If he hadn't already won Blaise's favour, he too would have been forced to wait in the room for Bellatrix to begin her interviews. In whatever context you could think of, allowing your wand to be taken from you was _not_ a good sign. It either implied implicit trust or that other thing Voldemort used to keep people in line– fear.

"Stupid _and_ helpless." Draco sighed wistfully. "Bellatrix will be so pleased."

Draco motioned for the others to wait to the side. Hermione watched in disapproving silence as he took the wand from Tonks and opened the door magically, with an inward flick of his wrist.

They others could not see what Draco was seeing, but they did witness the remarkable change that came over him as he stood at the threshold. He slapped on a serene, downright snooty expression and then kicked the doors open with his good foot. Hermione started forward to have a look, but Draco pinned her in place with a glare.

There were eight young men in the room, all dressed in Death Eater-ish robes of their own incompetent design. Draco supposed that this was what passed for enthusiasm. Or over-confidence, rather.

Four or five of them had the dark, moody look of Durmstrang about them, where getting lost on your way to the bathroom sometimes meant that the caretaker found your frozen, emaciated body in a cursed broom closet somewhere six months later. These boys were silent.

Another two looked quite concerned about the shifting situation outside the fortress and had been quietly bickering in rapid French when Draco had thrown the doors open.

"Bien le bonjour," Draco announced evenly.

Hermione, Tonks and Goyle watched, unobserved, from the sidelines. Goyle looked about two seconds away from panicking at the risks they were taking, while Tonks remained strangely expectant.

Inside the room, the assembled recruits took in Draco's bloodied and battered state with great alarm. One of the Beauxbatons boys, a tall, titian-haired youth, stepped forward. He was all haughtiness and suspicion, easily the unofficial leader of the group.

"Excusez-moi...qui êtes-vous?" he asked, with a delicate frown.

"Draco Malfoy, à votre service," answered Draco, with a slight bow of his head. He might have keeled over from the attack of dizziness that came over him from that simple movement, but one steadying hand on the doorjamb did the trick.

The boy's eyes widened considerably. He turned back to his companion for a moment before addressing Draco once more. "Malfoy! Alors vous êtes probablement, vous aussi, un nouvel adhérent ici?"

Draco's response was a humourless smirk of pure Malfoy malice. It was nice to be _known_.

"Not on your life, you Gallic wanker."

No one in the room apparently understood that, but one of the Durmstrang boys was quicker than the others to smell a rat. He made a run for the door.

"Welcome to England," Draco finished. And with that, he slammed the door shut and locked it.

Sharp pains were shooting up his injured leg. The pounding on the other side of the door began in earnest. Goyle looked quite resigned as he looped Draco's arm around his shoulders to provide his friend with some support. This, Draco allowed.

"Technically, we're in Wales," Goyle said. "Good to know," Draco forced out, through a hiss. He turned to Tonks. "Present for Moody when he storms the place."

Tonks grinned. "Oh, he'll love this."

"Several European villages will be missing their idiots, but I think they'll survive." Hermione made a frustrated noise. Perhaps she was missing the love of danger gene, but this was getting silly.

"Alright, we've locked the fools in. Can we leave now?"

**

A hex flew mere centimetres over them. The reason Harry knew this was because it grazed the top of his head.

He fell backwards, one hand scrambling over his hair.

"What the-" he said, feeling a stiffened peak of hair where there ought to have been a patch of scalp missing. Or worse. Some of his hair was rigid, sticking straight up in the air. Not that this was an unheard off occurrence when it came to Harry's head of hair. It was the more the fact that the hair had been hexed _rigid_.

"You alright?" Ron urgently called out.

Harry blinked, poking ay the stiff peak. "Yeah."

"Then don't stop firing! Moody told us not to let up!"

Harry had a perplexed expression on his face. "Ron, when was the last time you recall a Death Eater using only Petrificus in a do or die wand-fight?"

Ron was now staring at Harry's vertical fringe. "Um."

"Hold up for a minute," Harry said, after further thought.

"What are you doing, come back here!" Ron hissed, but Harry was crawling past Ron, through bushes and past the trees that were their only cover. He sat back on his haunches and regarded the clearing that separated their bit of the wood from the enemy's.

It was still very dark. Sunrise wouldn't be for at least another hour or so.

Harry cupped his hands and bellowed a long, "OY!" The sound carried across the field.

Several birds took to the air. You couldn't see them, but you could hear the distant squawking and flapping of wings.

All wand-fire from the opposite end was suddenly set to pause.

"HARRY?!" came a reply shriek, about ten seconds later.

Harry bolted up from his hiding spot. He knew that voice anywhere. "Hermione!"

And then she popped up from an outcropping of boulders. Hermione tentatively stepped onto the grassy field, wand still held up cautiously. The walking turned into a jog, and then a run when she recognised him. She launched into him so forcefully that he had to take a step back to avoid toppling over.

Harry hugged her tight and laughed. "Fancy seeing you here! I thought we'd-" All good abruptly humour fled from his face as he took in her blood-splattered clothing. His mouth dropped open a little.

"I'm fine, Harry," she cut him off with a confident smile. "Just a little shaken, but otherwise completely fine."

Not entirely convinced, Harry set her down with care and took to squinting into the distance. Another figure was emerging out of the gloom. "Who are you with?"

"You'll see," she beamed. "Oh, Harry, I can't believe you're here!"

"And where else would I be except on some dangerous rescue mission?"

"Hello? I'm on the same mission, last time I checked." It was Ron. He had come to a stop behind Harry and was looking happy, but disgruntled. Hermione tried to pull him in for a hug too.

He made a face and good-naturally pointed out that Harry apparently wasn't finished having his turn yet.

"Of course you're both idiots to come, but I expected no less," she told them breathlessly.

"That's gratitude for you," Ron scoffed. His eyes widened when the dark shape approaching them materialised into Tonks.

"TONKS!"

Tonks was dusting off evidence of Ron's numerous Reductos from her person. "So that was you two firing on us?" she asked pleasantly. "Weasley, that had to be the unfriendliest friendly fire I've ever encountered."

Ron and Harry were thrilled to see her. Harry thumped her hard on the back. "You, Madam Auror, are apparently indestructible."

She winked at him. "That's the popular theory. Where's Moody and the rest? And where the hell is Remus! He'll never hear the end of it from me if he stayed behind!"

"They're inside. All of them."

"Moody left the two of you on your own out here?" Hermione asked, incredulous.

Harry misunderstood the question. "I know!"

Hermione patted him on the arm. "I'm sure he had this reasons."

"What reasons? After going to the trouble of bringing us, we're told to wait outside for them? I knew this was going to be a token job, firing on anyone who tries to leave. That was until you two showed up," said Harry.

"Three," she corrected.

"Harry," Ron added with a sigh, "it _is_ a token job because apparently no one apart from these two have left the building."

"Three," Hermione repeated.

"Three what?" Ron asked and then quite suddenly, he looked ill. "Hermione! Is that… is that _blood_?"

Harry interrupted her reply by flinging his wand arm up. "Get back!"

Draco was the cause of this new panic. He was making his way toward them.

"You going to shoot before I start growing roots, Potter?" Draco drawled. His leg was stuck out at an odd angle and even in the darkness it was apparent he was a deathly shade of white.

Harry's wand hand twitched.

"Harry, no!" Hermione grabbed his wrist. It was like hanging on to a monkey bar. He didn't budge. She waited until he was looking at her before she spoke to him. "He's with us," she enunciated.

"What?"

"He killed a Death Eater to free me," she added softly, with eyes that were darker than just the colour brown.

"S'true, Harry," Tonks confirmed. She gently put an index finger on Harry's wand tip and gently lowered it. "He's friendly. So we get to bring him home and keep him."

Surprisingly, Ron was quicker to accept this than Harry. He jogged over to Draco to lend a hand. For his kind efforts, he received a sneer and a swatting.

"Whoah," Harry exclaimed, his eyes wide, as he took in Draco from head to toe. "You look like Hell's just passed you out, mate."

"Good to see you too, Potter," Draco wheezed. He hobbled over to a tree and leaned against it.

"We have to get him to the hospital wing or St Mungos to treat that leg of his," Hermione told Harry under her breath.

Harry gave her hand a reassuring squeeze and noticed that Draco watched this gesture beadily. "Take Tonks with you. Ron and I are staying. Moody gave us a task, so stupid or not, we're going to see it through."

"I already know you're staying," Hermione intoned. "Note that I didn't ask you if you were coming back with us."

Harry stared at her. "You're getting cheeky, Hermione."

"It's my inner Draco," she lamented, then gave him an affectionate smile. "Look after Ron please."

"Yes," Harry agreed, thinking of Ron's formerly blindingly white shoes. "He'll need it."

"Piss off, I can hear you," Ron muttered.

Tonks rolled her eyes. "Like I'm leaving the two of you on your own," she told Ron and Harry. "I'm staying. If only to see Moody's face when I tell him I'm free because of Lucius Malfoy."

"WHAT?" Ron gaped.

Tonks exchanged a brief look with Draco. She had been filled in regarding Lucius' escape and rescue of his son. For Goyle's protection, they weren't about to reveal his involvement in rescuing Tonks. Better to lay it all on a mysteriously reformed, Lucius.

Hermione hadn't agreed with the plan to deceive the authorities, but the truth meant Goyle's life would be in danger.

"There are four things you should know," she began in a businesslike manner. She roughly gathered her matted hair back and with flying fingers, put it into a loose braid.

"If one is the fact that Bellatrix Lestrange is here, scratch that off the list," Harry said.

"Alright. Blaise Zabini is Voldemort's Recruiter for Hogwarts. He's the one who brought me here. There's a roomful of probably very angry Death Eater signups that we've managed to lock up, and lastly, yes, Lucius Malfoy is responsible for giving us this wand." That happened to be the truth, at any rate. She held up the wand in question. "He's free and probably a hundred miles away from here by now. Can you run all that past Moody when you see him?"

A muscle twitched at Harry's jaw. Behind his glasses, he was wearing his crazy eyes again. "Zabini, you say?"

"Yes."

"And Lucius Malfoy is running around _free_?" Ron still seemed to be having difficulties absorbing this particular bit of information.

"He's the one who rescued Draco and gave him the wand. There was also supposed to be some kind of distraction planned."

Ron's head came up. "The explosion!"

"Your father's distraction must have been very distracting indeed," Tonks said to Draco, dryly. "We seem to be the only ones out here."

Ron was nodding. He pointed to the billowing grey smoke that was coming out of the eastern side of the fortress. "Well, let's just say it blew off an entire section of the building," he informed. "Moody and the rest of the team have gone through the massive hole it made. He gave us orders to fire on anyone who exits from the west."

"That would be us then," beamed Tonks.

"Where's the other Auror? Weren't there two of you missing?" Ron asked. There was a cautious note in his voice.

Tonks' smile vanished. She rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand, and then looked at them with regret.

"Bligh's dead."

"What from?" Harry demanded.

"It happened at Hogwarts. Some sort of portkey that sent him somewhere nasty, I'm guessing," Tonks flexed the fingers of her right hand. "What I would give for my wand right now…"

"You two better get going," Harry told Draco and Hermione. "We'll catch up with you later."

"Be safe, Harry."

"Be gone," he replied with a half smile, waving Hermione off with a hand. He turned to Draco next, speaking in a low voice. "Anything happens to her, you die."

Draco had no smart retort for that. "At last we agree on something."

**

**Chapter End Notes:**

French to English translation (for Draco's dialogue with the Beaxbatons DE recruits). THIS NEEDS WORK. I lost the original translation when CG went down.

Draco: "Hello, how are you?"

Student: Excuse me, who are you?

Draco: Draco Malfoy, at your service.

Student: Malfoy? Then you are here to join as well?


	46. Chapter 46

**Chapter Forty-Six**

"How are we getting back?" Hermione asked. Draco was walking ahead of her through the undergrowth.

Injured and exhausted, he still moved ridiculously quietly. Hermione, in contrast, felt like some trundling, lost, elephant. Nature walks in the dark were not her thing. Twice, she smacked herself in the face with a low hanging branch.

She prayed that whatever was coming into close, frequent contact with her face and upper body was not poison ivy of any sort. They could barely see where they were going.

"We'll work that out if we need to Apparate," Draco replied.

"Only if there isn't some sort of anti-apparition boundary."

He held back a branch back for her. "There might be, but we're definitely well past it by now."

Hermione grabbed his elbow to halt his progress. She eyed him critically when he turned to look at her. "Malfoy no offence, but I reckon if we Apparated together, we'll end up joined at the hip. You're in no shape to do it"

The corner of his mouth lifted. "Then you'd really be stuck with me."

"I'm not joking!"

"I know," he said, rather seriously. "You have no sense of humour."

"Draco we only have one wand. If there isn't a portkey back, we might have to wait for the Aurors after all."

"There'll be a portkey back to the Forbidden Forest," he assured. "And that's precisely what we're going to find."

Find it? She could barely see _him_, let alone their surroundings. The woodlands all looked the same to her.

"Did you come this way when you arrived?"

He thought for a moment, before answering. "Yes, I think so. Those trees look familiar."

Hermione stared at the trees in question. Of course they looked familiar. They were identical to every other tree she had seen in the last twenty minutes. Draco seemed to think they were in the right area, though, because he seemed to perk up. They came to a small clearing, and even Hermione could tell that the dead leaves on the ground were in a well-trampled state. The area was obviously in frequent use.

Draco walked a wide semi-circle, limping all the way, and then nodded to himself.

Hermione was glad to be allowed to catch her breath. She watched him and thought, rather morosely, that the blame for their entire predicament could be squarely laid on Love's doorstep.

Blaise, Draco, Goyle, Pansy. With Harry and Ginny as the more seasoned, supporting cast. Hermione didn't want to learn by their example though. Denying that much about yourself was detrimental to the soul.

If anything, Fida Mia had convinced her of this.

Who knew being in love felt like you had everything in the universe to lose, every second of the day? How was that a good thing, exactly?

It was surreal. No, it was _unreal_. To think on all that had happened to them since she had given in to Draco's slow, condescending smile that night of the Graduation Party. It felt like it had happened eons ago.

She watched him, thinking that there were probably a million things she wanted to do with him and show him, when they were safe. That was a big ask, wasn't it? To be safe? It filled her with such happy, stomach flipping anticipation, to think of all the many things they could laugh about with together.

Arguments. Plenty of arguments. Making love. Yes, plenty of that too. To have someone you knew so well that you really didn't need to ask to borrow their jacket when you felt cold, because it would find its way around your shoulders without a word being spoken.

"This is it, I'm sure of it!" he suddenly said, "This is where we Transported in. There has to be a portal somewhere." He eyed a large, moss covered rock speculatively, followed by a fallen branch.

Hermione had never seen someone look so excited by the sight of a hollowed-out tree stump.

She must have looked a bit out of sorts herself because he said, "Granger? Are you alright?"

Her smile was brittle, but Hermione wouldn't have known it without being told. She was suddenly freezing. The image of Travers' slack, gaping mouth and blood-splattered torso danced in front of her eyes like a marionette from a nightmare.

"We're almost home," Draco reassured.

He had such a beautiful voice. Hermione wondered how she had never stopped to notice that before. It penetrated the belated onset of shock. He hobbled over to her and squeezed her hand. She realised that her fingers seemed to be made of ice.

"That Gryffindor courage isn't failing you now, is it?" he asked, with a bit of a smile. His fake smile was better executed than hers, but she could still tell he was worried about her.

Hermione shook her head.

"Good."

He prodded various things around the clearing. Still holding his hand, Hermione prepared herself for the telltale, inward tugging sensation behind her navel, but it never came. He tapped his foot against a log, and then the boulder next to it, and then the dead, tree stump.

Still nothing.

"Malfoy, if we can't find this portkey, I think you should Apparate ahead of me to St Mungos. I can go back to find Ron and Harry," she suggested.

"I'm not about to drop dead, _woman_." _Though fainting was something else altogether_, he thought to himself.

"Stop your nagging and help me look."

Something in the darkness caught her eye, if only because the cloud overhead had cleared up somewhat and what was left of the fading moonlight filtered down through into the clearing. It looked a lot like a gold tie pin, pushed into the bark of an oak tree. She began walking towards it.

"Draco, do you see that? I think-"

He frightened her by putting his hand over her mouth and pulling her back into the shadows. They stood together under a bent willow, half hidden by the low foliage. Her trembling became marked enough that Draco started rubbed his hands up and down her upper arms. She could feel the bandages around his wrists.

"What is it?" she whispered.

"Don't know," he replied, his breath stirring the soft hairs at her temple. "Might be nothing."

It wasn't nothing. _Someone_ had just walked into the clearing. Hermione squinted through the leaf cover. All she could make out was a slender figure in the darkness. She tried to push a branch out of the way to have a look, but Draco would have none of it.

He had a better view. Hermione tilted her head up to look at him. She guessed he could see who it was because he looked murderous.

Blaise was glancing down at the ground with great intensity. It looked like he was reading the pattern of the scattered leaves. He sighed loudly.

"I know this wood like the back of my hand. I know each little nook and cranny of it."

Hermione tensed as soon as she recognised Blaise's voice. They had a wand! They should just stun him while they had a chance! Draco made no move to do so, however.

"Is that you, Draco?" Blaise called out. "Of course it is. Looking for the portkey back, aren't you? I suppose you would be. You're not stupid enough to stay here and play hero, are you? Not even to impress your sweet wife. Although perhaps the rescue of that Auror was impressive enough?"

Hermione tensed. She thought of Ron, Harry and Tonks and prayed that they were safe.

"I know you're there. I know someone's there. It _is_ you, isn't it, Draco? Hermione, are you with him? Going to see him safely back to Hogwarts? Was it you who did that terrible thing to poor Travers, then?"

She couldn't help it. She saw the body again. Her brain was being a pest. Draco seemed to sense this and held her in a more comforting manner.

"Not coming out? Perhaps I can entice you, whoever you are," Blaise continued. His arms were crossed and he was almost tapping his foot against the ground. "Show yourself and maybe I'll tell you where Bellatrix is. They haven't found her yet, you know. Those imbeciles stormed the building and of course she disappeared like so much smoke. But I know where she is." He said this last line in a sing-song tone of voice.

Blaise might have been trying to give off the impression that he was utterly in control, but now standing on her toes, Hermione could see that he looked very uneasy. His eyes kept darting nervously around the edge of the clearing to see if anyone else was approaching.

Hermione whispered to Draco. "He's bluffing. He would never give her up."

As if Blaise heard her, he said, "My Master will blame Bellatrix for the messy demise of this entire operation. And after all the hard work and unflinching commitment of his Recruiters this year. I mean to replace her Draco. Come out, come out and I'll tell you where she is, the woman who ordered your mother's extermination. Trade you that for a goodbye, my friend."

Surely Draco wasn't falling for this dribble, was he?

"Stay here," Draco said to her.

Hermione twisted around in his arms and glared up at him. "What? Are you insane!" she hissed. "You wouldn't last a second!"

"Your faith in me is genuinely humbling," he replied, highly irritated.

"Since he isn't bleeding from a wound nor suffering from the effects of recent Cruciatus, I think it's safe to say he's in better shape than you right now!"

"Don't be a twit," he hissed back, "I'm not going to fight him. I'm going to _stall_ him. He thinks he's out of danger because he's managed to leave that building undetected, well he's wrong. Go back and get Weasley and Potter. Or better yet, bring back real Aurors."

"You really think he'll tell you where Voldemort's right hand is?"

"Yes, I do. Now take this wand with you."

She shoved it back into his hands. He was stark, raving mad.

Draco gritted his teeth. "Granger, he'll disappear if he sees me coming at him with a weapon. Let him think I'm unarmed and half out of my mind with revenge."

"Are you?" she asked with a frown, the thought only just occurring to her.

He stared at her long and hard, calm leeching back into his system as he laid his palm against her cheek. "Don't you trust me?"

"This isn't about trust, it's about stupid plans! This is like one of those old Batman episodes," she said, with bitter conviction. "It's the villain's prerogative to make the hero's death as flashy and as ridiculously elaborate as possible."

Draco gave her a slightly disbelieving look. "Batman."

She was becoming hysterical. "Yes, fucking _Batman_!"

"Hermione, he _can't_ kill me. I saved his life when we were children. There is a Wizard's Debt between us."

This was news. Hermione stared at him with wide, worried eyes. Killing wasn't _hurting_, and Blaise had already proved that he was more than willing to inflict a world of hurt on Draco. Draco was not Batman.

He was the love of her life.

"What are you going to do?"

Draco shrugged. "Annoy him. It's apparently what I do best."

He pushed her backwards into the undergrowth, but she was having difficulty letting go of him. His tattoo was a dark blur over the fair skin of his back.

"Be quick." Was that a tinge of fear in his voice? Impossible. Hermione hesitated. "Just in case he's madder than he looks." He managed a smile under a grimace.

Reluctantly, she released him and watched as he stepped out of the trees to meet the villain of the story, one last time.

**

Remus Lupin thought it might have been the knock to the head that had done it. No telling with head injuries.

One time, James had accidentally swung a pilfered cricket bat at Sirius's head while mucking about in the Common Room, and the latter had sworn he had seen tiny, dancing fairies for hours after.

Lucius Malfoy was _not_ a tiny, dancing fairy.

Also, the bastard had just attempted to kill him.

Though, to be fair, it wasn't anything personal. Lucius had probably set out to wipe out an entire floor of Death Eaters and wasn't aware that two members of the Auror rescue party were attempting to sneak into the fortress in the middle of it.

Remus recognised the sharp, acidic scent of Powdered Dragon Bone in the air as soon as the door was opened. The finely milled powder was highly volatile. Just a pinch, handled incorrectly, could easily result in the loss of an appendage.

Whoever it was who had set off the explosion must have used an entire jar load of the stuff.

Remus didn't actually see Lucius until later. As it was, Astrid was picked up and thrown backwards out of the building by the force of the blast. Remus, meanwhile made intimate, painful contact with a wall and slumped down to the floor. He could make out at least two more unconscious figures further along the corridor. Death Eaters, hopefully. Moody had better hurry the hell up.

He craned his head around to scan through the scattered debris outside, for signs of Astrid. He saw that she was sitting up, covered in soot and pulverised rock. Her racking coughs reassured him that she had suffered a narrow escape.

And then, to Remus' amazement, Lucius Malfoy very calmly walked out of the smoking carnage and stepped over him with shiny, black-booted feet.

He took two steps, paused, turned around and then stared down at him.

"Lupin?" Lucius asked, almost conversationally.

Remus blinked at him through the dust in the air. He was working up to a reply. Lucius beat him to it. "My son, is he with you?"

"No," Remus coughed.

"Make sure you find him before you leave this viper's pit," said the elder Malfoy. He continued walking, stopping once further down the corridor to casually divest one of the fallen Death Eaters of a wand.

When Remus finally managed to stagger to his feet, Lucius was still within Stunning distance.

But if the elder Malfoy expected the spell, it never came.

**

Draco had Bellatrix's location. He didn't have to beg, bribe or taunt. Blaise had simply told him, the light of pleasure and calculation burning brightly behind his eyes.

His mission may have been in shambles, but if a promotion could be salvaged from the botched operation, then Draco supposed that made Blaise happy. As much as sociopaths experienced real happiness, anyway.

Blaise was not an idiot. In fact, despite his impulsive kidnapping of Hermione, he was the exact opposite.

Unfortunately for Draco, stalling only worked so long as you had something to stall with. Having already got what he was risking his neck for, Draco hadn't a clue what else to do with Blaise.

Wanting to strangle him to death was not on the cards, given the lack of a wand and the fact that the effort might cause him to swoon. That would not only be embarrassing, but possibly fatal.

Unless Hermione hurried back with help.

Draco tried a casual approach. "Kay," he said, "thanks for the information. I'll be in touch."

Miraculously, Blaise was in no hurry to depart. "Planning to leave without your wife, after all?" he asked Draco.

"Did you leave her with the Aurors? What was that whole 'don't touch her or I'll kill you' spiel earlier in the dungeons? Was it all an act?"

"No," said Draco. "But I've since realised what a horrid nag she is. I've changed my mind. You can have her."

"You think you're very funny don't you?" Blaise sneered.

"Only in extreme, life or death situations."

That earned Draco a scowl. "Where is Hermione, Malfoy?"

So that was his game.

Remarkable. He was _still_ after The Girl. Draco very much wanted to end him. Maybe all this tragedy could have been averted if Draco had simply brought Blaise along pub hopping with him and Goyle, and got the crazy twat deflowered.

Draco snorted. "Fuck off, you mental case. Get your own Mudblood."

"Language, Malfoy," said Harry. He came up from the path that Draco and Hermione had taken earlier. Hermione and Ron followed behind.

Startled as he was, Blaise was still quick. Harry's reflexes, however, were second to none. He dove to the ground and rolled, avoiding Blaise's wildly aimed Stupefy. Ron had quickly pulled Hermione down for cover.

The wand Draco had given her went flying and she would have darted back to pick it up, except Ron was pulling her along.

There was a flurry of dead leaves billowing up in the air.

"IMPEDIMENTA!" Harry shouted, before he had finished his roll.

The spell hit Blaise in the ribcage. Looking stunned, he fell sideways to the ground. Ron darted forward and quickly kicked Blaise's wand out his hand.

A panting Ron then turned to Draco. "You, alright mate? Hermione was sure we'd find your crisp, smoking remains where she left you standing."

Draco hadn't taken his eyes off Blaise. "No," he said. Then he walked up to the fallen boy, drew his uninjured leg back and kicked him hard in the stomach. "Better now."

"Did he tell you?" Harry demanded. "Where Bellatrix is, I mean?"

"He told me, but whether the information is reliable remains to be seen. At least we have the informant."

A grin was forming across Harry's face. "Looks like we got the catch of the day. I imagine Moody will have quite a few things to ask him."

Ron hauled a sputtering Blaise up by the back of his cloak and said into his ear. "Don't say anything. Don't even breathe if you can avoid it. You try something and I'll let Malfoy do much worse that bury his expensive hiking boot in your gut. Do you hear me? Not so in control now, are you, Head Boy?"

"Ron," Hermione said. She was slowly walking toward Draco. There had been enough unpleasantness for one day. "Can we just quickly finish this, please?"

"Fine. We'll take him back to Moody. You two go on to St Mungos, like you planned." Ron shoved Blaise roughly towards Harry, who took over by placing his wand tip under Blaise's chin and urging their prisoner along.

Blaise took several steps forward before stopping to face Draco. "Malfoy-"

"Ignore him," Harry called out, giving Blaise a reminder jab under the chin.

"You were right!" Blaise persisted. "You can't give me what I want, Draco."

"I told you to shut up, Zabini!" Ron snapped.

Draco held up a hand. He wanted to hear this. "And what do you want now? To see me dead? But you can't do it yourself, can you? Because that will mean your own death and we both know you're no martyr."

"To see you dead?" Blaise smiled. "Eventually. But first, I want you to suffer." The smile held until he looked at Hermione. He had a very expressive face, did Blaise. The sincerity in his expression had them all spellbound for a moment.

"_I'm so sorry_."

Not quite understanding, Draco instinctively reached for her . She was just two arm-lengths away.

"Harry?" Ron called out the warning. Too late.

Blaise had hurled a small glass ball. It shattered against Hermione's hip.

Overhead, the sun began to rise.


	47. Chapter 47

**Chapter Forty-Seven**

Draco didn't need to lunge. She was too close for that. He simple extended an arm to grab her, not knowing what he was intending to do. The silly girl wasn't even looking at him.

She was still watching Blaise. Likewise Potter and Weasley. Draco noticed these details because it felt as if someone had slowed down time (and his reflexes along with it).

Some primitive, instinctual part of his brain recognised the need to move quickly, but he seemed to be stuck in slow motion.

Blaise had thrown a glass ball. The new, morning light reflected off the orb as it sailed through the air. It struck Hermione on her hip and broke instantly. Thick, dark, smoking liquid spilled out, spattering against her skirt. The acrid stench of Dragon's Blood wafted through the air. Not black then, if it really was Dragon's Blood. In normal light, it would show as a murky, clotted red. From inside this macabre liquid prison, a gold coin was set free.

A ubiquitous gold Galleon.

Draco could only watch, feeling dread the likes of which he had never encountered in his life, as the coin flipped several times over and then fell, striking Hermione on her dusty, worn, school shoe.

By the time Draco's hand reached her, it met mist drenched air. She was gone.

"NO!"

He heard Potter's shout as if it was coming from far away. A horrible numbness descended over him, followed by a stark terror that was not entirely his own. He began to tremble.

Harry stared, dumbfounded for a moment before spinning around and kicking Blaise's legs out from under him.

He slammed one foot down sideways on Blaise's neck and pressed forward. "Where is she?"

Blaise was choking. He tried to swipe at Harry with his right hand, but Harry pinned that to the ground too with his other foot. Blaise's left hand flailed about ineffectually in the dirt. Harry put more weight on his foot and was rewarded by Blaise making a thin, wheezing noise.

"WHERE DID YOU SEND HER YOU SICK FUCK?"

Ron's hand was buried in his hair. He was shaking his head, still gawking at the spot where Hermione had been standing seconds before. "What…_what_ just happened?"

Draco could not reply. He was still staring down at the coin, bright gold stained with blood. There was a noise lodged inside him. He wanted to let it out because the force of keeping it in was hurting him, but his throat had seized.

"WHAT JUST HAPPENED?" Ron demanded again.

Harry's head snapped up. He sent Ron a look of desolation. Harry knew all about portkeys that sent you to bad places.

"Hermione's been Transported…somewhere."

Ron gaped at him. "Portkeyed? Where?"

Harry was working on finding that out. He stepped over Blaise and pointed his wand to the boy's abdomen. "You're going to tell me where she is right now, or I swear to God, Zabini, I'm going to gut you."

Blaise stared up at Harry with loathing. "It's too late," he whispered, "she's dead."

"HERMIONE IS NOT DEAD!"

"She is," Blaise insisted. He sounded equally forlorn. "That's a Death Portal, Potter."

Ron began pacing. "Death Portal! Harry…what are we going to do?"

Harry was shaking his head. "No, she's not dead."

Draco's voice cut through the panic. "You're right."

Harry's head lifted. His green stare was piercing. "What? You can feel her? She's alive?"

Draco's light eyes unfocussed. He shut them and drew in a long, shuddering breath, as if the act of pulling the air into his lungs was suddenly difficult. On his bare back, Harry could see that the tattooed wings looked like they were trying to tear free from his skin and take to flight. It was one hell of a sight.

"Yes."

Ron was stark white. "Then death isn't instant, wherever she's gone?"

Harry turned back to Blaise and backhanded him hard, in the side of the face.

"Where does it go, Zabini?"

Blaise coughed a few times and then spat out a tooth. "I don't know…"

Harry hit him again, harder. "Wrong answer. Where does it go?"

"I DON'T KNOW! I don't know where the portals send you, alright! I wasn't told. All I was-"

"How about we test it then?" Harry interrupted. He grabbed Blaise by the back of his hair and dragged him over to the coin, shoving his face over it. Blaise's sweat dampened fringe hovered mere centimetres above the coin.

"Since you're so willing to send an innocent girl to her death, how about you go on ahead and tell us where that portal takes you, huh?"

Blaise laughed. The sound bubbled up from inside him. Revolted, Harry released him. A coughing Blaise crawled away backwards from the portkey. He sat back in the dirt and smiled, revealing blood-stained teeth.

"It wouldn't make a difference. Killing me won't bring her back, will it?"

"Malfoy, what are you doing?" Ron suddenly shouted.

Draco was standing over the coin. He looked like he was about to step on it. Harry, who was nearest, stopped him by tackling him around the middle. They scrambled in the dirt. Draco kicked at him once to get away, but stopped. He would need what was left of his strength.

"Let go," he told Harry, calmly.

Harry's eyes were red with unshed tears. He stared at Draco with a mixture of grief and cautious hope. "_You're crazy_."

"Let go of me."

"No," Harry swallowed and shook his head wildly. "You don't understand. It should be, it should me. It should always be me..."

"If anyone goes, it's going to be me. Now move away from me Potter," Draco repeated. "_Please_." Looking poleaxed, Harry pulled his shaking hands away from Draco. Behind him, he could hear Ron struggling with Blaise. He couldn't help Ron just yet, though. Harry only had eyes for what Draco Malfoy was about to do next.

Draco gave Harry a final look before he put a foot out and stepped on the coin

**

_So cold. Dark. Can't move. Can't breathe! _

_I'm under water…_

She was going to drown.

_Oh God, please help me. I don't want to die! _

_Think, Hermione!_

She was in a cage. Metal. Rusted. Not very wide judging from the fact she could almost touch two sides if she stretched her arms out straight. It was tall, though. She had to swim upwards to reach the top.

_I'm not going to die I'm not going to die._

Her searching, desperate hands clambered over something snagged at the bottom of the cage. Billowing cloth caught on a rough bit of metal bar. Slippery, slimy…

Good lord, someone was already here!

Not someone. A dead body. Her calf brushed against a leg and she pulled back in disgust. It was a man. A man wearing wizard robes. Wizards carried wands!

She rummaged through his clothing. Her searching hands ran over his face. It was spongy, but she suppressed the desire to shrink away and kept on looking. His hands were empty. His pockets were not! Hermione nearly cried with relief when she produced a wand.

Dear God, her lungs were on fire. Her skin felt like it was shrinking around her, suffocating her. Holding the wand tightly, she turned it towards the bars of the cage and cast a basic Blasting Curse.

Nothing happened. Confused, she tried again. And then again. Alohomora had no effect either

It wasn't working. Why? Nononono!

Hermione ran her fingers down the wand. There was a pattern etched unto it. That was unusual, but other than that, it wasn't broken.

No more air left. Her chest was hurting so bloody much.

And then, quite suddenly, she wasn't alone. Not alone any more with the dead man and the strange wand in his pocket that didn't work. It was as if the small space in the underwater prison wasn't nearly enough to contain the two of them, her and _Draco_.

In complete disbelief, Hermione spun around in the water. She couldn't see him, but she knew he was there with her. The horror she was feeling increased tenfold.

He was beside her. Those were his hands holding her, reassuring her that he was indeed real. The dragon on her hip lurched and slithered toward him, seemingly happier to see him that she was.

Why was he there? Had he been hit with a Portkey as well? Were Ron and Harry facing a similar fate?

He seemed to realise what they had to do in less time that it had taken her. After reaching out to see where she was, he then grasped her chin and sealed his mouth over hers.

Air! Oh sweet Jesus, he was giving her air!

She took it from him greedily and then wrenched her mouth away when she realised this was probably going to mean his death as well.

Draco was operating purely on faith, apparently, for he had come without a wand. There was no way, then, to tell if the wand she had been using was simply not functioning. She tapped it against his arm anyway. He immediately took it and a part of her felt immense relief not to be the one responsible for failing to rescue them.

It was selfish of her, but she was too far gone to care. She had skipped past panic.

Or maybe not. Maybe all that had already _been_ panic.

She was so light-headed. The pressure on her chest was unbearable. It was taking every ounce of willpower she had to not open her mouth and suck in a lungful of water. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut and resigned herself to the fact that she probably wasn't going to be able to open them ever again.

_I'm so sorry, Mum and Dad. Harry, Ron, Ginny. _

_Draco._

Draco was still inspecting one side of the cage. She wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her cheek against his beautiful, dark wings, as if that alone would help ease the terror of dying.

There was a body floating below them.

He flinched when Hermione tapped the wand she was holding against his arm. He _knew_ that wand. Recognition and familiarity coursed through him. _This is my father's wand!_ He knew it as surely as he knew Hermione's eyes were brown.

His very first spell had been cast on Lucius' wand. He remembered the day very well. Lucius had smiled a rare, genuine smile of pleasure.

They were going to die if he didn't work out how to break the seal on the cage very quickly. He had seen magic like this before. The dungeons they had come from had been imbued with similar spells. If the cage was charmed to prevent magic from the inside, perhaps it was not impervious to magic from the _outside_.

It seemed so simple a solution, but their survival was going to depend to how far outside the cage the charm extended.

Every charm operated within a set boundary.

The key, however, was not to panic by the fact that they were drowning.

Draco shoved his hand out between the bars and turned the wand back to face the cage. The spell he cast did not work.

Damn it! Perhaps he had to try from further out still, but he didn't have any more arm left to push through the bars. Or maybe he was just plain wrong. Yes, that was entirely possible.

_Don't. _

_Panic._

Hermione was no longer holding on to him. He had felt her clutch at him tightly, convulse and then her hands had fallen away. It was acute torture to not be able to turn around to see to her, but Draco needed to concentrate on what he was about to do. If he gave in to his terror, they were going to die for certain.

He jammed his left shoulder in between two bars as violently as he could manage. Some of the rust on the metal flaked away. It was hard to build up the required momentum underwater so he propped his back legs on the wall of bars behind him and _pushed_.

It worked. His damaged shoulder joint dislocated and the familiar pain radiated through him. He was already in serious danger of passing out from blood loss and was starting to see tiny, white spots flickering before his eyes.

Thanks to the unnatural alignment of his dislocated shoulder, two more inches of his arm passed though in between the bars. The pain was bordering on ridiculous and he was having trouble forcing his hand to maintain its weak grip on the wand.

But he revelled in the pain because it told him he was still alive.

He prayed, not knowing who he was praying too or what exactly for, but he figured God knew complete desperation when He heard it.

When his hand was as far away from the cage as was possible, he turned the wand back towards the bars, made sure he was out of the way of the spell trajectory and then blasted the bars.

With a great deal of heated, bubbling water, the bars popped free of their moorings. One side of the cage collapsed. From beneath them, the body of the man managed to free itself and float upwards.

Ecstatic, Draco turned back to Hermione.

She was…_no_.

He knew, without having to see it to confirm it, that there was no longer a tattoo on his back. His marked skin may as well have been peeled off of his body.

The absence of Fida Mia was death already. The hurt was so deep and all-consuming that his father's wand threatened to slip from his fingers.

_Too late._

He would stay down there with her then. It was alright. Nothing else seemed preferable than staying with Hermione.

A subtle warmth caressed his face then. It felt like his mother's touch. Wherever they were now, the sun was also rising. The light cut through the gloom of the water like sunshine piercing through a tired rain cloud. Suddenly, everything was bathed in glittering brilliance. It was like being inside a prism.

He looked down and saw Hermione's pale, unmoving face, dark lashes resting on her cheeks. The silence was complete and perfect

Draco tilted his head up and squinted at the light. _The light was up._ The light was safety, just like his mother had told him, in his pain-hazed dream. The darkness was not infinite.

His fist tightened over his father's wand. It was strange to think that both his parents were there with him at that moment.

The blazing, golden sun rose steadily over the water. Draco held Hermione tightly, cradled Lucius' wand between them and focussed his entire being on a single spell and the image of a shoreline.

**

They were deposited on a very familiar shoreline indeed. Except it was more of a bank. Hogwarts' great lake, to be precise. It had been an act of desperation, because the odds that they would be splinched were very high indeed, given he had no idea where they had come from or if he had the energy to pull it off.

But he had. And they arrived as two separate wholes with all their extremities intact. Thank Merlin for small mercies.

Great sheets of water also travelled with them. Draco collapsed to the grassy bank, still holding Hermione as the water splashed to the ground around them. That first lungful of air nearly did him in.

He doubled over with painful coughs, simultaneously flipping Hermione onto her back and shoving her dark hair away from her face.

She was blue. Her skin was clammy and her usually rosy-pink mouth had taken on a distinct purple tinge. He stared at her in abject horror, his hands moving over her face as if his fingertips could read signs of life where his eyes were registering only death.

He was not Harry. He was not designed for pulling off miracles. No, not built for that at all. And Draco's strength was failing him. He could barely see straight.

Desperately, he tried to recall the Resuscitation Spells they had been made to learn in Charms.

"Anapneo," he gasped and watched on with nearly ignitable hope as her chest rose and fell. He repeated the spell five times, as per Professor Flitwick's instruction to a largely disinterested group of fifth year Slytherins and Ravenclaws.

The charm was doing what it was supposed to do, but it wasn't _working_.

How long had they been under? It couldn't have been more than three minutes? Longer for Hermione, obviously.

Panting, water dripping down onto her face from his wet hair, Draco straddled her, almost sitting on her thighs and began pushing down rhythmically on her chest. But his dislocated shoulder rendered his left arm utterly useless. "_Nooo..._" he moaned. He tilted her head back, cupped her chin with his good hand and blew air into her lungs. "Don't leave me, Hermione. You can't leave me," he pleaded, pushing down on her chest with his right hands.

More words tumbled out of him. Begging words. There was a terrible, heart-breaking, wailing sound. He wished to God it would stop.

It was coming from him.

Tears were streamed down his face. It felt like his insides were unravelling. He was crying like he hadn't done since he was a child. He tried to control the sobs that were wracking him as he tipped her head back to blow more air into her lungs. The effort nearly killed him.

Draco swayed, his eyes rolled back into his head and he fell heavily to his side beside her, in the foetal position.

It was a battle simply to remain conscious. He couldn't do it on his own. He was losing her.

Lucius' wand lay at his feet. Gasping, Draco stared at it purposefully and then reached for it.

He needed help from Hogwarts. The problem was that Hogwarts did not know they were there.

"_I volunteered your dad's wand as our prototype_," he remembered Moody telling him in Dumbledore's office. _"Naturally, we picked the Malfoy standard as a Marker during the testing. The spell was still in place when the wand was taken."_

The dead man in the watery grave had somehow been in possession of Lucius' Ministry-tinkered wand when he had died. Draco was willing to bet that the man was the missing Auror, Donald Bligh.

From experience, only one spell tended to send the right kind of people running straight toward it.

This would be the first and the last time he was going to cast the Dark Mark, and it was going to be for a good deed. The irony of it was almost enough to make him smile.

If Hermione survived the next sunrise, Draco was going to kiss Mad Eye Moody's club foot the next time he saw him.

He took his young wife's cold hand in his own, raised his uninjured arm above him and cast the spell Voldemort seemed to think he was born to use. It took something out of him to say it.

He felt the dark rush of less-than benign magical power surge from his core and up his arm, into the wand. It sapped what little energy he had left.

"Morsmorde."

The last thing he recalled seeing was the Dark Mark looming in the bright, blue sky, just before it turned into the Malfoy Dragon.


	48. Chapter 48

**Chapter Forty-eight**

Draco observed three things when he opened his eyes.

The first was that he was dressed in blue and white-striped pyjamas, which probably meant that he was at St Mungos.

Second, he was wonderfully pain free, which after two weeks of injuries, accidents and several near-death experiences, was just _capital_.

Thirdly and lastly, Albus Dumbledore, dressed in magenta robes embroidered with gold, was sitting on the foot of the mattress sucking on an obscenely long piece of red liquorice. It looked to be mid-afternoon, judging from the deep amber sunlight that came through the windows at the far side of a room that smelled like lemons and antiseptic.

"Headmaster," Draco greeted. His voice sounded better than it ought to, given that his throat felt like someone had force fed him bobotuber pus.

Dumbledore popped the candy out of his mouth and beamed at him so widely his cloudy blue eyes nearly disappeared behind a sea of soft wrinkles.

"Welcome back. I hope you don't mind that I've been helping myself to your collection of Get Well Gifts." The Headmaster inclined his head to the right.

From under his long fringe, Draco turned to look at the tiny bedside table almost hidden under brightly coloured boxes of candy and other wrapped confections.

He blinked at this unfamiliar sight. The only candy he ever received was normally from his mother and it was usually the kind of rich, dark chocolate you would only ever eat in small quantities. Not the type of stuff you'd shove fistfuls of into your mouth.

Pansy usually just brought gossip. Millicent was more of a cashmere scarf sort of gift-giver, while Goyle probably thought of 'gift-giving' as a way of openly questioning his masculinity.

"I'm at St Mungos?" "Yes," said Dumbledore.

Draco willed up some saliva to assist the questioning and sat back against the headboard. He stared down at his blue and white torso.

"That would explain the pyjamas."

Dumbledore smiled again. "Haven't changed since I was last admitted, which is a fair while back."

"She's alright, isn't she?" Draco asked. There was no fear in his voice.

The question was rhetorical. Hogwarts' Headmaster would not be demolishing candy in front of him if Hermione was dead.

"Miss Granger is fine, but you knew that already."

Draco said nothing. He allowed himself to relax now as he scanned further down the room, noting that there was an old man prodigiously snoring in the bed across from him. Trust St Mungos not to bother giving him a private room, despite the massive donations his father had made during better times.

Not that such things really mattered any more, Draco supposed. It was quite a thing really, to have your whole universe turned upside down practically overnight. Priorities were troublesome, he decided. Most especially when they changed.

First things first. A bit of housekeeping.

"So what's going to happen to Blaise?"

Dumbledore's smile dissolved. "Mister Zabini is in Ministry custody, likewise the ten other individuals captured two nights ago."

"_Two_ nights!" Draco sputtered. "I've been asleep for that long?"

"Technically you awakened yesterday evening when the medical staff repositioned your shoulder, but considering the amount of sleeping draught they administered, you likely do not remember?"

The old man was right. Draco didn't remember. His shoulder felt excellent though. Whatever they had done to it was worth the lapsed memory.

Despite his general cheerfulness, there was something in Dumbledore's manner that said perhaps not _everything_ had gone a hundred percent to his satisfaction.

"And did everyone else make it back safely?" Draco inquired carefully.

"Miss Parkinson and her parents are still being interviewed by the DMLA. Misters Potter and Weasley are under the formidable charge of an irate Molly Weasley. Nymphadora Tonks was kept overnight for observation and released early yesterday. As for Alastor Moody's team, scratches, bruises and I believe one young Auror is nursing a sore head, but all are otherwise and thankfully fine."

There was one person missing from the run down. Even if that person hadn't gone on the rescue mission.

"What about Professor Snape?"

"Azkaban," Dumbledore said, without anger, just a lot of grim resignation.

Silver eyes snapped up to meet blue. "What! _Why_?"

"Because he freed your father, Draco. The Ministry is not exactly in a forgiving nor…flexible mood given current events."

"He did it to _save_ me! And Hermione! Not to mention Tonks. None of us would have come out of there alive if it hadn't been for my father!"

Draco's outburst caused the snoring man in the opposite bed to startle and snort briefly. Both Dumbledore and Draco watched distractedly as the man hiked his blanket further up his body, grumbled and then rolled over.

Dumbledore was quieter when he replied. "I do not entirely disagree with the means. Severus did what he felt he had to, given the circumstances. The gamble paid off, but not for him, unfortunately. Lucius Malfoy was not Professor Snape's last resort to utilise as he saw fit. Despite my insistence, the Ministry will not be swayed."

"I thought that was what us Malfoys are to you lately, tools or weapons," Draco said bitterly.

Dumbledore seemed startled by this new animosity. "Do you really consider yourself my tool, Draco?"

Draco's eyes narrowed. "A spy is a tool, isn't he?" Draco felt petulant. He hated feeling petulant. He knew the spying assignment hadn't been Dumbledore's idea.

But as usual, Dumbledore was quick to catch on to the new tangent, even if Draco wasn't aware he was on one.

"Powerful motivator though, isn't it?" the Headmaster asked, with the air of someone trying to prod someone else into an epiphany.

"What is?" Draco whispered. He wanted to be alone now. He wanted Dumbledore to go away so he could make an attempt to leave the room on shaky legs and sneak one last look at...

"Love," announced Dumbledore.

Draco supposed it was reassuring to know he still had enough blood left in him to blush. "You know about Fida Mia, then?"

"Oh yes. Professor Snape was very forthcoming when it became clear Miss Granger was in great danger. Mister Potter as well."

Love was a motivator alright, for mental blockages. It was responsible for all the idiocy in the world. Goyle running of to join the Death Eaters. Pansy being a twit about well, everything. Him nearly killing the one person that recommended him to living. Blaise being a complete psycho…

"The portkey that Blaise used. Where does it take you?" Draco asked.

"The Great Lake," Dumbledore replied.

"Blaise sent us _back_ to Hogwarts?" Draco asked, wide-eyed.

"Mr. Zabini wouldn't have known where the portal would take you. I suspect it is Voldemort's ironic little secret to have his execution mechanism so close to Hogwarts. As you know, portkeys may only operate within a certain distance and there are not many magical bodies of water large enough to conceal such a device within its depths. The Merpeople are assisting in dismantling the thing as we speak. Though it should be pointed out that you have already done most of this work for us."

Draco recalled the dead wizard in the cage. "There was a man in the cage. He had my father's wand. The one the Ministry experimented on with that tagging spell."

Dumbledore nodded. "That wand is the reason we found you in time. It was quite a Dark Mark you cast," he said, dryly. "They evacuated all of Hogsmeade in less than thirty minutes. Arthur Weasley tells me that is some sort of record."

"That Dark Mark saved us."

"No, Draco. You saved yourself. And Miss Granger, of course. The man in the cage is Moody's missing Auror, Donald Bligh. According to Tonks, Bligh would have confiscated your father's stolen wand from Mister Zabini shortly before being portkeyed to his death."

"That was the evening Tonks was kidnapped," Draco surmised.

"Young Nymphadora has a knack for being at the wrong place at the right time," Dumbledore said, by way of confirmation.

There was only one thing left to ask, Draco supposed. It would have seemed odd and just a tad suspicious not to. "Any word on Goyle?" he added, hoping it sounded like an afterthought.

"Should there be?" Dumbledore intoned, just as carefully.

Draco was instantly annoyed. Damn the man for being cagey.

Dumbledore hopped off the bed and patted Draco on the shoulder. "Rest now. The healers tell me that the draught they gave you will wear off in about two hours or so. Until then, bed rest. You will have no shortage of visitors later."

_Visitors?_

"Sir?" Draco hated that his voice sounded so young at that moment.

Dumbledore paused at the door.

The gold embroidery in his rich robes seemed to gleam in the low light at the doorway. "Yes, Draco?"

"I don't want to see her. Could you please make sure...no one visits?"

The old wizard looked saddened but unsurprised by this. "As you wish."

**

**Chapter End Notes:**

I can tell you I got flamed something fierce for ending the story on this depressing note. And for the 13-part epilogue to follow. I contemplated posting the epilogue here as a sequel on its own, but I feel it's hardly a stand-alone story. It's the culmination of DB and therefore, needs to be posted as part of the original story. What I'll do instead is post the epilogue as 13 additional chapters, bringing the grand total to 61 . Thanks very much for reading so far.


	49. Chapter 49

**Chapter Forty-Nine**

**_Five years after the events depicted in The Dragon's Bride_**

It was Sunday, which meant it was extremely quiet at the Ministry of Magic.

Still, the building technically never shut and so someone had to be on hand at all times to take complaints, Owls, Floo transmissions and sign for packages.

On Sundays, this job fell to Rosie Pinkerton, Atrium Front Desk Receptionist at the Ministry of Magic.

Rosie put down her quill and stared up at the man who was asking to see Harry Potter. She was two weeks into the job at the Atrium Front Desk. To be honest, there wasn't much to do on the weekends, which was why she was trying her hand at the word jumble in the Sunday Prophet.

Atrium Front Desk duties basically meant that Rosie dealt with the public. The Wizard in the street, so to speak.

Any old Joe Blow could not just walk into the Ministry proper. You could try, but you wouldn't get much further than Rosie and the guards that patrolled the Atrium.

You needed to work there, have a valid Pass or an appointment. And if you had any one of these things, you still had to get past the elevators, which were a whole other level of security.

A lot of her job involved simple diplomacy. It often entailed deflecting disgruntled persons stumbling home early on Sunday morning after a Saturday night out, wanting to give "the sodding Minister" the Irish bird for raising the legal Apparition age to eighteen.

Rosie was Muggle-born and on the whole, considered wizards to be a strange lot. The man who was standing on the other side of her counter was stranger than most, however.

He had dialled in, just as everyone else did, via the red telephone box, giving the name, 'George Merrybones'. But he was not wearing the silver visitors' badge that had been assigned to him.

He was an odd duck, to be sure.

For starters, he looked like he had just trudged through half the Sahara (and brought most of it back with him). He was covered from head to toe in about an inch of dust.

No, not dust, Rosie mentally corrected, it was _sand_.

The pale yellow, fine kind that got everywhere and into everything. She thought he might be blond, but she couldn't be sure. His long hair was extremely matted and mud caked in some places.

The grime on the man was considerable. Indeed he looked like he had popped into existence straight out of a dust storm. His clothes were little more than rags, save for boots that were the only thing on him that looked passably new.

Goodness, was that a _whip_ he was carrying at his hip? She couldn't see his wand and for some reason, this just made her more nervous.

He said something about a package he had to deliver.

His face was powdered with dust, such that there were tiny, pale creases at the corners of his eyes where he probably squinted from the sun and the dust hadn't had a chance to get in. God knew how old he was. He could have been anywhere between twenty and forty.

It was his eyes, however, that made Rosie hit the panic button under the counter, even though she wasn't even in a real panic yet. She remembered her training and knew that it was always best to be safe and embarrassed, rather than sorry and Hexed.

The stranger's eyes were a riveting shade of thunderstorm grey, made all the more intense because they fairly burned in a face that had been tanned a light gold. His gaze held a great deal of clarity and purpose, which one did not often see in a drunk wizard with a gripe and nothing better to do on a Sunday morning.

Yes alright, it _was_ Sunday, but where the hell was security? She had hit the button two minutes ago.

"Is there a problem?"

He spoke again, the stranger did. It didn't sound like the voice of a crazy person. It sounded like the voice of an extremely annoyed person, actually.

Rosie slapped on a perfect Customer Service smile. "Not at all. Did you say you wanted to see Mr. Potter?"

"Yes," said the man, staring at her as if she was slow. "I'd like to see Harry Potter."

It seemed a pointless question to ask, but she was stalling now. "And do you have an appointment?"

Those magnificent eyes narrowed a fraction. "No."

"Do you have a pass?"

"I beg your pardon?" he repeated, obviously at the end of a tether that had frayed, dropped off and disintegrated quite some time ago.

"A pass to enter the building without an appointment," Rosie explained. His eyes weren't grey, she decided. There was too much of a metallic quality to them. These were silver eyes.

"A pass," he agreed, quite cordially, to which Rosie was very surprised. He smiled at her, his teeth startlingly white in his tanned face.

She released a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding.

And just like that, he turned on his heel and walked out of the atrium. Spencer, the rotund Head Weekend Guard finally appeared, not in any hurry.

"Who the buggery was that?" he asked. There was quite a bit of sand on the polished floor and Spencer was staring at it quizzically.

Rosie hadn't a clue what to respond with. 'Some nutter' somehow didn't fit the bill. The man didn't look particularly off-balance, just...unsettling. She was glad he was gone.

Spencer waved off the rest of the guards that were taking their time in approaching the front desk. "False alarm boys," he told them, in a chuckling, slightly condescending manner that irritated Rosie. "She's only new!"

"Said his name was Merrybones. He wanted to see Mr. Potter," Rosie replied, briskly.

Spencer snorted in understanding. "Fan club, eh?"

"I doubt it. Seemed almost put off by the prospect, actually."

Both Rosie and Spencer pondered this fact, for surely there wasn't a man, woman or child in Wizarding Britain who wasn't in respectful awe of Harry Potter.

"Well then, sing out if you need us," Spencer winked and waddled off to the guards' room, ostensibly to go back to his game of something or other with the other bored Sunday guards.

Rosie sighed, unsuccessfully shook off a feeling of dread and resumed her assault on the Sunday jumble. She was halfway finished and quite pleased with herself, when it happened.

"I've brought my Pass," said the voice.

The man was back, but he wasn't alone. Beside him, was the stiff, hovering form of a… oh Merlin, he had said something about a delivery. He unwrapped the package.

It was a _person_. A gaunt, frail-looking woman, wrapped up in several yards of dusty fabric. Her long black hair, liberally streaked with white, was the only thing fluid about her. She was quite Petrified, her face frozen in a mask of snarling hate. The stranger gave this macabre package a little shove, whereupon it floated about a meter or so, coming to a stop before Rosie.

Thus did Rosie Pinkerton find herself face to face with the frozen, bobbing form of Bellatrix Lestrange.

Voldemort may have been the ultimate, faceless bogeyman, but everyone knew what _she_ looked like. The posters had been up for _years_.

Training be damned. Rosie screamed.

Spencer and the other guards came just a bit quicker this time.

**

Harry had been napping on the lounge at Grimmauld Place, a half eaten sandwich resting on a plate, resting on his stomach, when the fireplace had stirred.

It took a few minutes to actually register what it was that a frantic and pale Zacharias Smith was telling him. Smith, who looked about as sleep deprived as Harry felt, had been catching up on his Wizengamot Administration paperwork when frantic guards had nearly kicked down his door to tell him what had just occurred in the Atrium.

Zacharias was, on that particular Sunday, the most senior official at the Ministry. It fell to him to alert Harry.

"Get Moody," Harry ordered, toppling both sandwich and plate to the floor in his haste to get to the fireplace.

He made a quick call to Ron, who after accusing Harry of 'not being funny' no less than three times, of course demanded to know if they were going to tell Hermione.

"Not just yet," said Harry. He pulled on a coat and scarf and Flooed directly to the Ministry.

There were about a dozen people in the Atrium, including frightened looking custodial staff, several lower level officials and one distraught receptionist (she was new, Harry could not recall her name) being soothed by a portly security guard.

All began speaking at once, but Harry waved them off, promising to return after the most urgent business had been concluded. He took the lifts to the second floor where his office was located. Additional security personnel were standing guard outside the office.

The reason for this was soon apparent.

Zacharias and Malfoy were standing on the rug beside Harry's filing cabinet; the former staring at the latter as if he was a toxic, explosive cream pie about to go off at any second.

Malfoy, if indeed it was Malfoy, was virtually unrecognisable in a nondescript coloured shirt and trousers that looked like they'd been sandblasted. He had about six meters of raggedy scarf wound around the lower half of his face. The man looked like an extra from The Mummy.

There was a tremendously long silence.

"Say something soon, Potter. The silence is making you uncomfortable," came that prickingly familiar drawl.

Harry knew that voice very well. It was deeper now, more…measured. The whine was gone. It was Malfoy, alright. Harry was floored.

"You-" Harry eventually said, closely followed by "I…" and then words seemed to fail him altogether. He ran a hand through his hair and sat down heavily in a fraying armchair.

Zacharias cleared his throat. "Right then. I'll leave you to it. I'm sure Moody will need my assistance. Call me if you need me, Harry."

Malfoy shot Zacharias a look that said he seriously doubted that Alastor Moody would require any assistance the likes of which Zacharias could provide.

Harry didn't take his eyes off Draco and spoke only when Zacharias' footsteps could no longer be heard in the corridor outside.

"We thought you were dead," Harry stated flatly.

One corner of Draco's mouth lifted. "Not for lack of _others_ trying, believe me."

"_Where the hell have you been_?!" Harry hadn't intended this to come out as a shout. As it was, the force of the question just about rattled the windows.

"That is a long and complicated story and one I'd rather not have to go into whilst I have about a kilo of sand in my pants," Draco replied calmly. And then, in a cheerful tone of voice, "Do you have anything to eat?"

Harry blinked at the change in topic. But hunger was something he understood. "Just wait here," he said, striding to the door.

Draco snorted. "Like I could leave if I wanted. At the moment I'm as much prisoner as dear Bellatrix." He waggled his fingers at the four guards that gawked into the room when Harry opened the door to leave.

Harry made a quick trip to the staff lounge, mentally cursing whoever it was who was last rostered to replenish the food cupboards. It was probably him. The women on Level Two were always on his case for eating the cupboards dry. There was hardly anything there.

In the end, Harry settled for a tin of ginger biscuits, a pasty of questionable freshness, two cauldron cakes and someone's untouched bottle of homemade pumpkin juice. Harry hoped it hadn't been sitting there for too long.

Outside, Harry nearly collided with Alastor Moody who was storming down the corridor in the direction of Harry's office. A breathless Zacharias Smith was jogging behind him.

Moody, who could never ever have been labelled as spry, was even less so. He was stooped and walked with a long, limping gait. Some of the grizzle had left him, leaving an old man who was less sturdy than knobbly.

"Is it true? The boy brought her in?" Moody wheezed. He paused to lean against the wall, mopping at his face with a Hagrid-sized hanky.

Boy? Malfoy was twenty-three, but then anyone under forty was 'boy' to Moody.

"She's in a cell," Zacharias confirmed for all present. "One of the older ones seeing as we haven't really finished the refurbishment upstairs. She's still Petrified. We haven't brought her out of it yet," said Zacharias, with a bit of a questioning tone.

Moody grunted. "Leave her be until we get a bit more information. We have no idea where Malfoy's been. For all we know, this could be some sort of elaborate plan to infiltrate the Ministry."

Harry shook his head. "I doubt it. Capturing Bellatrix was a personal mission for him."

"One hell of a personal mission, don't you think? He spent four years on it."

"Five," Harry corrected. He was thinking of Hermione again.

Moody was growling. "I'm not liking your look boy."

"What look?" Harry asked.

"You're looking hopeful," Moody accused.

"Hardly! We were never friends. If Malfoy ever really had my trust, he's bloody well lost it."

"Good. The boy _disappeared_, Potter. Remember that. People who make themselves disappear have something to hide."

Or rather, something to hide from, thought Harry.

"Is there anyone else you'd like me to notify?" Zacharias asked.

Moody barked off a list of names, including Kingsley Shacklebolt, Remus Lupin and Tonks. Two newly arrived Aurors approached along the corridor and stopped beside Moody for a briefing. Harry waited until Moody turned back to speak to him.

"Right, so _you're_ handling Malfoy's interrogation. He's asked to see you in person so I'm guessing he's wanting to give you the exclusive on his story. Keep in mind he's a suspect and will be detained until the story checks out, understood?"

"Yeah."

"Don't let your guard down. I know he's a pretty son of a bitch."

Harry gave the old, ex-Auror a bland look. "Oh, piss off!"

Moody chuckled. However it had come about, they now had Bellatrix Lestrange in custody. It was an historic day and Moody's cautious enthusiasm could not be disguised. This was a very big deal.

"Now if you don't mind, I'm going to have a gander at Lestrange. For these old eyes, seeing is still believing," said Moody. His magical eye did a bit of an excited jig.

Harry turned to Zacharias after Moody had hobbled off. "Zach, since we're in lockdown at the moment, can you do me a favour? Can you gather everyone who knows and tell them not to let this leave the Ministry for the time being?"

"Harry, we'd be hard pressed keeping a lid on this!"

"_Try_," Harry snapped.

As a disgruntled Zacharias left to do his bidding, Harry returned to his office with his small stash of food. Draco was now seated in Harry's old armchair with his legs crossed. His hair was so long, it hung a third of the way down the back of the chair.

Harry shut the door behind him, locked it and then handed Draco the food and drink.

"Thank you," Draco said and immediately started on the cauldron cakes.

The simple and sincere thank you startled Harry. There were no insinuations or layers in the phrase.

Harry waited a minute or so before speaking. "So you think you can waltz back in here with Bellatrix Lestrange in tow and all would be forgiven?"

Draco looked up. He used the back of his hand to wipe crumbs from the corner of his mouth. There seemed to be more sand than crumbs at any rate. "Yes, Potter. I thought it a reasonable assumption," he said, after he had swallowed his mouthful of cake.

"Why did you bring her in?"

"Why?" Draco repeated, his eyes flashing old malice. "I should think it obvious. My bitch aunt plotted the death of my mother and very nearly succeeded in causing my own demise. Among many other dastardly things."

Whatever he had been through, there was still enough of the same cocky, arrogant git under all that grit and grime to reassure Harry that in many ways, they were still on familiar ground.

Harry wanted to make him say it, though. He would hear it from Malfoy's own mouth before he decided whether or not he was going to let the bastard anywhere near Hermione again.

"Fine. Besides avenging the death of your mother, why else are you here?"

"Did you get my postcards?" Draco asked politely, as if it was only a holiday he'd been on. He had started on the pasty now. It definitely looked stale, but the expression of contentment on Malfoy's face said it was at least edible.

Harry was incredulous. "Oh yes. We received your…what was it? _Three_ postcards in that first year you took off. And then nothing after. Like I said, we thought you fell off the edge of the world."

Draco stopped eating. "I've seen the edge of the world," he said, very quietly. The tone of his voice made the hairs on the back of Harry's neck stand on end. But then the coolness was back just as quickly. "Wouldn't recommend it. Rains three-quarters of the day."

"So why else are you here, Malfoy?" Harry persisted.

Draco popped the remaining bit of pasty into his mouth and took a long swig of pumpkin juice. He closed his eyes for a moment, savouring the simple, familiar comforts. Harry wondered how long it had been since he last had something decent to eat.

Presently, Draco sat back in the chair and regarded Harry with a challenging expression.

"I've come back for my wife."


	50. Chapter 50

**Chapter Fifty**

"Happy birthday," said Hermione to her foggy reflection over the bathroom sink.

Outside, the world was trying to drown itself. It was raining fat, hard summer rain that fell straight down to the ground in the breezeless air.

The woman that stared back at her from the mirror didn't look particularly thrilled by the birthday announcement. But then it was seven in the morning and Hermione had never been very functional before nine and at least one cup of tea.

She brushed her teeth, making a mental note to do another load of laundry that evening as she stared at the growing pile of towels in the hamper behind her. Or maybe not. It wasn't good weather for drying laundry.

At least the cottage garden was getting a bit of a watering. Her landlady had been alarmed at the brown flower beds and yellowing grass that summer.

Perhaps moving into Ginny's London flat would have been the wiser decision. A cottage was always going to require more maintenance than an apartment. In the end, it was Crookshanks who settled it. He was getting on in years and could no longer sprint up a flight of steps with his usual agility.

Ginny's flat was at the top of four flights of steps, which was challenging at the best of times. And so the small, two-bedroom, renovated Edwardian cottage had been too charming to pass up. In the warmer months, the catnip and cat grass grew rampant along the sun-faded brick path in the backyard and this was heaven for an elderly cat who still fancied himself a romp every now and then.

It had been squeaky clean, but very Spartan when Hermione had signed the lease. She had needed to purchase a larger bed, a fridge and a gas stove. Harry lamented the lack of a television when he came to visit, but Hermione assured she had always been able to do without. One room was to sleep in, the other was a makeshift office and library, only her collection of books had outgrown the shelves her mother had contributed.

They neatly lined one wall; great teetering piles that Ron joked were in danger of doing mortal harm to Hermione or Crookshanks should they ever topple on top of either of them.

Her landlady was a kindly widowed Muggle woman who had insisted on donating new curtains and the warm, colourful rug in the small lounge area. She only lived down the road and came by for tea and gossip after Church almost every other Sunday. The nearby village was Muggle, as was the cottage, but it hadn't been difficult to register and then hook up the two fireplaces to the Floo Network.

Ginny continued to nag that Lavender Brown was the world's most unreliable housemate and if Hermione ever changed her mind about living the life of a recluse…

But that wasn't going to happen any time soon.

Hermione had pondered over her reasons for wanting to live alone, and quietly attributed it to the fact that she was an only child who enjoyed her own space. And after attending boarding school for seven years, a bit of privacy was welcomed.

There was truth to that, anyway. She would hang on to that reason.

The staring face in the mirror was pink cheeked from the hot shower. Short, curly, wet hair framing a delicate, heart shaped face that was perhaps a little leaner than it had once been. Dark ringlets clung to her hairline and the nape of her neck. The hairstyle made her eyes appear even larger, and she never really noticed how much of a tilt there was to them until after the hair cut.

Eager for a change, Hermione had shorn off her heavy, shoulder-length hair more than a year ago during an unusually hot summer. She hadn't looked back since. Short hair wasn't really low maintenance, she discovered, as it took quite a bit of grooming in the mornings to tame the mass into an acceptable style.

But she rather thought the cap of curls suited her better. And she certainly did not miss the weight on her scalp.

The bell at the front door sounded just as Hermione finished rinsing out her mouth. She could only just hear it over the rain. It was a bit early for visitors. Hermione frowned as she pulled on a dressing gown over her pyjamas and socks and went to see who it was.

Ron was standing on her front step, holding a sodden brown paper bag. He looked extremely grave and extremely wet.

"Birthday greetings," he said, with a smile. This was followed by two quick sneezes.

"Ron, you're soaked through!"

"Yeah," he sniffed, shaking himself off like a wet dog. It was then that Hermione saw the broom he had strapped on to his back.

Hermione's eyebrows rose. "You flew in _this_?"

Ron nodded. "From the Burrow. And yes," he held up a forestalling hand, "mum did tell me so. She made you these, by the way." He handed her the brown paper bag. Hermione could smell cinnamon buns, even though they had transformed into sponges during the journey.

"Bloody water repelling spell wore off after the first kilometre," he said, with resignation.

Crookshanks came to the door to see who the visitor was. There had never been any love lost between Ron and the cat. They eyed each other beadily before a disinterested Crookshanks slinked back to the comfort of Hermione's yet unmade bed.

Hermione stood aside. "Come in, I was just about to make up a pot a tea."

**

She was taking the news _too_ well, Ron decided.

He had told her as she fussed over making them breakfast, even though he insisted that his mother had already fed him up to his eyeballs. Still, for the sake of having something to do while he relayed the dreaded information, he managed to squeeze in two slices of toast with marmalade and shared the segmented grapefruit that Hermione had laid out.

Hermione preferred black, sweetened tea that was stewed to the point of being coffee, so he also took his time making his way to and from the fridge to top up his milk.

The rain continued to pound over the slate shingle roof, a fitting, tense background noise, Ron thought.

They were seated at the table in her small kitchen and the only outward reaction she was showing to the news was the fact that she'd been stirring her tea for the past five minutes. Half of it had left the cup and sloshed onto the saucer. She didn't seem to notice.

"Hermione," Ron started gently. Merlin, why did _he_ have to be the messenger this time?

Because Harry had his hands tied and Ginny was a bloody chicken, was why. "Did you hear what-"

"I heard you very clearly, thank you," Hermione interrupted. She took a distracted sip from her tea cup. Her eyes were trained on the table top.

"You're taking this very well."

She shrugged. "So he was dead and now he's back."

Ron shifted in his chair. The only part of him that seemed to be dry was the seat of pants. His sodden shoes and socks were hovering over the laundry sink.

"That's just it. You never believed he died. No matter what Harry or I said, remember? Turns out you were right."

Hermione's jaw tensed. She tucked one of her short, springy curls behind her ear. "As far as Malfoy is concerned,_ I don't care_, Ron. I really don't. He was lost to me a very long time ago. I've moved on."

"Of course you have," he said, probably too placatingly. "You're only human, though. It's alright to admit that this is something of a big deal, Hermione."

Ron was not prepared for the fury in Hermione's expression. Her brown eyes bored into him as she jabbed her spoon in his direction.

"There is nothing between us! It was the beginning of the end the day I died in the Lake. The Fida Mia enchantment was dissolved and then he _left_. He left! End of story. Adventure story, love story, tragedy. Mistake. Whatever you want to call it, his returning means nothing other than a possible, _swifter_ solution to the war!"

Ron said nothing, though he carefully got out of his seat and fetched a tea-towel from the sink. He handed this to Hermione.

Who then dabbed at the tea she had spilled across the table. "Thank you," she said, primly. "Having Bellatrix is a real score. Moody must be over the moon."

"He is," Ron stated, frowning.

"He should be," Hermione snapped.

They drank more tea in silence.

Ron sighed. He was crap at deep and meaningfuls. "I know you've moved on. But I also know _you_. You don't just…forget."

She replaced her tea cup in its saucer with too much force. "Watch me," she said icily. "Trust me. I'm fine, Ron. All I feel towards Malfoy right now is pity."

"Funny, I'm sensing anger."

"I'm not a teenager anymore. These are not romantic times. I'm not about to run to him to rekindle wasted, dead passions."

"They weren't romantic times when we were eighteen either," muttered Ron. "They were more looking behind your back, running for your life sort of times."

Hermione pretended not to hear him. "If it can be avoided, I'd prefer not to see him."

Ron glanced up. That had been exactly his suggestion too. "Now see, that might be a bit difficult…"

"Why?" she asked, frowning. "My work has nothing to do with yours or Harry's. We hardly cross paths at the Ministry as is."

"Well, because he's living with Harry is why!"

"He's _what_?" Hermione's eyebrows disappeared into her curly fringe.

Ron had rehearsed this part, at least. "As you know, Malfoy Manor's been under Pansy Parkinson's stewardship. It was all Ministry arranged. By law, they can't declare Malfoy well and truly deceased until he's missing for at least seven years. In the event of a missing heir, the estate is to be run by a caretaker. Parkinson put in a bid for a contract to maintain the place and it was accepted. Malfoy said he didn't want Parkinson to be out of a job in a hurry so he said he'd like for her contract there to continue for the time being. Meanwhile Moody doesn't want Malfoy out of his sight and so…"

"So Harry took him home?" Hermione concluded.

"Yes."

She stood up. "I've heard enough. I'm going to be late for work."

Ron wondered if it was indeed naïve of him to think he could made the visit that morning _without_ getting his head bitten off.

"Hermione, your supposedly deceased, secret, former husband has mysteriously re-appeared after a five year absence bringing the second most wanted person in Wizarding Europe with him as his prisoner. Under the circumstances, I'd say you deserved a personal day. Take today off. It's your birthday."

**

Oh, there was no way she was missing a day of work.

Ron left via Floo, looking very concerned and not a little bit guilty. Hermione stiffly thanked him for the birthday wishes, the cinnamon buns and saw him off with a peck on the cheek and a sincere promise to visit a lonely Molly at the Burrow soon.

She then sat on the edge of her bed and stared down at her folded hands.

There was an unravelling sensation in her belly. It didn't exactly hurt, but it was still a pain. Like an injury you carried for so long that you forgot about it, except on really cold days when it acted up or when everything in the world and in your head was so quiet that you allowed yourself to remember again.

Only it felt dull now. More an ache, actually, but even as she thought this, it grew sharper and more acute until she was gripping the coverlet of her bed with white-knuckled fingers.

Sometimes, in the moments between sleep and wakefulness, she'd _swear_ the dragon was still at her hip. Still delicately coiled around her leg like clinging, silver ivy.

In the early days, she'd use this phantom sensation to see if she could locate Draco, but feeling and using were two different things. It was always like trying to catch smoke.

The ache was sense memory, nothing more. A magic-induced scar on her soul from Fida Mia that still tingled every now and then. It was not a compass to direct her to him.

Fida Mia had been extinguished when life had fleetingly left her body.

There was no longer a bond between them and Hermione had long ago concluded, with some bitterness, that the absence of the spell had been all Draco needed to come to his former senses and leave.

Leave her. Abandon promises given under enchantment. Abandon his inheritance. He hadn't just walked out on her, he'd walked out on his _life_.

His account at Gringotts remained untouched. That had given her a morbid kind of hope at first. The more Hermione pondered this fact, the more she insisted that he had not left off his own volition.

Perhaps he had been coerced? Maybe there were other forces at work?

But then the postcards came in that first year he was missing, a sad reminder of the promise she had forced on him the day they had met by the Quidditch shed.

"_I know you're off to do whatever you think you have to do, but a mailing address would be nice..." _

_He sighed. _

_"A weekly letter would be ideal..." _

_"Granger, I-" _

"_Hell, I'd settle for a postcard every month. I'm not fussy."_

He had tried to tell her, hadn't he? She had felt quite the fool to know that wherever he was, he was there by _choice_. He had left her by choice. That had hurt a great deal, even though she often thought she understood why he had done it.

There were sudden spots of warmth on her bare thigh. She glanced down and noticed the splatter of tears in her lap where her dressing gown had parted.

Hermione brought her fingers to her face and was startled when they came away wet. No, she was not crying.

She would not cry. Not anymore. There was nothing to cry about, really. Two admittedly eventful weeks in her life when she was only eighteen were hardly worth getting upset over, all over again.

Being adamant counted for nothing, in the end. The tears fell anyway. She was older now and more seasoned, but she was still the same Hermione who got wistful over particularly pretty sunsets, ecstatic over the birth of the latest Weasley grandchild and accused of being a busy-body every time she inquired over the state of Harry and Ginny's ongoing, turbulent love affair.

After thinking deeply for a minute, she walked to her closet and retrieved a small, hinged wooden box that was buried under shoes she hardly ever wore, suitcases and a pair of rollerblades her father had given her for her sixteenth birthday.

Her work with the Department of Mysteries was concerning the power of symbols. The research and its potential implications was very promising indeed.

Not to mention enlightening.

And so she knew what she had to do and really, she had given herself enough excuses to _not_ do it.

There were several items inside the box. A walnut. A small monogrammed towel from the Cobblestone Inn. A receipt from the Sushi Hut on Euston Street. A note that was dog-eared and folded so many times over that it was all lines and creases. A t-shirt with a peeling rainbow and a thoughtful-looking frog sitting beneath it.

The fire in the living room was still lit, in anticipation for Hermione's Floo trip to work. She walked up to it and tossed the entire box plus contents into the flames.

After that, she set about getting dressed and packing her lunch for the day.

There was a lot to be said about routine and the comforts to be derived from it.


	51. Chapter 51

**Chapter Fifty-One**

Harry Potter's townhouse at Grimmauld Place moaned and complained as only an old, wizarding home could. It creaked and cranked and occasionally whinnied in the strong wind.

It had started with rain, the kind that threatened to concuss if you were daft enough to venture outside without an umbrella. Muggle weatherpersons had predicted hail as well, but that had yet to eventuate.

Wind soon followed the rain. It had obviously found a breach in the aging roofing and was currently playing tag through the house's corridors.

Potter was probably used to the noise. It wasn't that the place was uncomfortable. Sirius Black's old residence was certainly hospitable, in a creepy, derelict sort of way. Draco was accustomed to living amidst the creepy and oftentimes macabre, what with being raised at Malfoy Manor.

It was just that it'd been some time since he'd had slept in a bed.

With a mattress.

And four squashy, goosedown pillows that smelled of lavender.

And a blanket he didn't have to share with bugs. And _sand_. Merlin, he would never forget living with all that sand…

As it was, the soft mattress was doing its best to swallow him up and Draco had had enough after the fourth hour of hopelessly tossing and turning and once, flailing.

He sat up in bed, cast Lumos as he flicked open his battered, travel-worn silver pocket watch to scowl at it. Habit made him wear it to bed, even though thieving bandits who robbed you while you slept probably wasn't a likely occurrence at Harry's home.

Potter appeared to be sound asleep, judging from the snoring that was filtering down the hallway from his room.

Draco slept with the room door ajar. He attributed this to the fact that he had grown so used to sleeping outdoors that the thought of being confined by four walls and a ceiling that was not made of stars had become just a little unpleasant.

Soft candlelight from outside cleaved into the dark room at a right angle to the wall. It was three am on a Tuesday morning.

_Bugger this_, he thought, as he tossed off the covers and strode out of the bedroom. It was only when he reached the landing did he remember to walk back to the room to put on some clothes.

**

Ginny wondered how she had ever survived in the Weasley household being such a light sleeper. What with the twins in the opposite bedroom, which meant that odd explosions could sometimes be heard in the dead of night (or small hours of the morning, depending on far away you were from breakfast or dinner), life ala Weasley tended to be _noisy_.

Harry wasn't a chronic snorer but he tended to be louder when he was extremely tired, which was the case lately. It had been a big weekend, by all accounts.

For all of ten seconds, Ginny briefly entertained the notion of waking Harry up for a bit of an early morning snuggle, but the poor man was clearly exhausted and she didn't have the heart. Besides, she was feeling a little peckish after a too-early dinner.

As she was already wide awake, she decided to compound the situation by venturing downstairs for a hot drink and whatever else she could muster up from the biscuit tin in the pantry. Maybe some drinking chocolate. And a cookie.

After that, she'd put her feet up in the lounge room and read yesterday's paper.

Ginny was walking across the dark expanse of Grimmauld Place's kitchen, trying to stir her coffee quietly when Draco suddenly materialised at the doorway. A bright shaft of lightning chose that precise moment to flash across the wet sky.

She was so startled by his appearance that she dropped the mug. Some of the hot liquid sloshed over her toes. The curses that followed were markedly louder than the earlier stirring.

"Hmm," said the long-haired, wild-looking apparition that was apparently Draco Malfoy, as he stared down at the dark puddle on the slate floor. "It would seem that I owe you a beverage."

**

She'd known Malfoy was in situ at Grimmauld Place, of course. It was the talk of the Ministry. Harry had complained about nothing else all of Monday. It was just that she hadn't had any time with Harry lately and considering her overworked fiancé had to add babysitting Malfoy to his list of duties, she thought she'd surprise him at home late that evening.

Ginny remained convinced, as she had been many years ago, that no jury in the world could possible convict her for bludgeoning Draco Malfoy to death with the nearest, large, blunt object. In this case, that happened to be an antique, iron meat grinder, which thankfully for Draco, was bolted to the kitchen counter.

He was just that aggravating.

After a few comments about clumsiness and weak nerves being ever-lamentable Weasley traits, the last of the Malfoys carried a replacement cup of coffee out into the dining room and slowly slid it, with one finger, across the highly polished dining table towards her. Ginny knew he hadn't poisoned it because she'd watched him make the drink.

Cautiously nevertheless, she sipped it and was surprised to note that he had added the precise amount of sugar and milk that she preferred, without having to ask her.

She raised questioning eyes to him.

Malfoy shrugged in response. The candlelight on the walls made the hollows in his face more pronounced. "I remember."

"You remember how I like my coffee?" Ginny asked.

The smirk vanished. She wondered if it was just the memories doing that to him. "That time at school when I sat down at Gryffindor table to inform Potter about the friendly Quidditch match against the Aurors. We had pancakes that morning. You were making yourself coffee. It's just a detail."

"Right," said Ginny, who wished Harry made himself aware of such 'details'.

There was a short silence, during which Ginny tried to pinpoint what it was that seemed so different about Malfoy.

Of course he was older. They all were. There was his general appearance, which had been somewhat tamed since Harry had forced him at wand-point to take a shower at the Ministry before he brought him home.

After which he forced him at wand-point again to take a bath, due to a distinct, lingering, eau de camel.

And then it came to her. He wasn't _angry_ any more. That was it. She had always felt a brittle sort of tension being in Malfoy's company, which was why people tended to steer clear of the old Draco unless they were in his good books.

It wasn't unusual for teenage boys to be angry. Harry had certainly put in his fair share of angst during their later schooling years. But there had always been an…'instability' about Malfoy, a sense that he might snap at you for no reason other than because he felt like it.

And Merlin knew that Draco Malfoy turning on you was not something you soon forgot.

There was none of this now. There was a deep, but definitely _calm_ ocean behind those familiar grey eyes.

His long fingers drummed lightly on the table, as if he was growing impatient with her sudden, close scrutiny.

"So what are you doing here?" he inquired.

Funny how he was able to ask her that as if _she_ was the interloper at Grimmauld Place.

"Visiting with Harry," answered Ginny, hotly.

Did he really need to ask? She was wearing a dressing gown, for Merlin's sake. It seemed obvious enough. It was all Molly Weasley's fault for making Ginny particularly sensitive about the sleeping arrangements she and Harry shared whenever Ginny visited Grimmauld Place.

Molly was from the 'separate bedrooms' school of courtship. In fact, she wasn't just from that school, she was the Headmistress. Harry hated lying (and frankly, was shite at it) and so Ginny had to do it for the both of them.

Malfoy didn't nod or do anything that might have put her more at ease. He just looked slightly amused. "You look well," he said, with complete amiability. "Good to know Potter hasn't driven you to tear your hair out just yet."

"You on the other hand look like something Crookshanks dragged in," Ginny replied, feeling an immediate need to defend Harry, though she couldn't think why. "Didn't they have mirrors in the desert?"

Malfoy gave her a slow smile. "Ah, Crookshanks. Is that old fur ball still alive?"

"Yes. He's enjoying retirement at Hermione's cottage."

"So she lives alone then?"

"Oh, no," Ginny narrowed her eyes at him. "You're not getting any more details out of me. You're on your own."

"A state of affairs I plan to change," he informed.

Ginny stared at him. She felt searing hot indignation on Hermione's behalf. "You really think you're going to pull this off, don't you? Breaking Hermione's heart and going off on some suicidal journey of discovery for five long years. She hasn't forgotten you, you know? And _not_ in the way you'd prefer."

Malfoy remained unfazed. "Then let her be the one to tell me that in person."

"Oh come off it!" Ginny really wanted to see him angry. It was easier to be cross at him in return if he was being deliberately obtuse. "We both know that you don't really have to be here. Harry can't hold you and he knows that. You could walk right out of this house if you wanted, so why pretend we're making you?"

"Diplomacy has its merits," he replied. "Even the serial rule-breaker snoring upstairs has managed to learn that. Given the circumstances of my return, I think it's best to behave myself for the time being, don't you think?"

Love wasn't a game, she wanted to tell him. Neither was the war. There was so much more than Hermione's future happiness at stake. If he was back for a reason, the solider in her hoped it had more to do with, than just Hermione.

"We're so very close. To ending all this for good, you know," she said softly.

"Well then," Malfoy leaned forward ever so slightly in his chair. His legs were crossed and Ginny only then noticed that he was barefoot.

He smiled. It was a sinister, Lucius Malfoy sort of smile. "Then I've picked a good time to make my return, haven't I?"

A younger Ginny might have retreated a little in the face of such subtle intimidation, but she'd grown up as well.

"At this point, Malfoy, I think you're better off wooing Voldemort than you are Hermione. Besides, Harry won't let you anywhere near her until he can confirm every inch of your story. And pardon my language, but it's one fucked up tale of obsession and revenge."

He surprised her by immediately looked disgruntled. "And pray tell how long will that take?"

It was Ginny's turn to smirk. He was obviously not used to operating on someone else's schedule. "Draco Malfoy, meet Ministry Bureaucracy. Normal turnaround is six weeks."

"Wonderful. And I'm shackled to Speccy Git until then?"

"Speccy Git is the reason why you're not spending that time in an interrogation cell!"

"I am not following Potter around like some besotted fan, for six weeks," he hissed.

Ginny glared back. "I have it on good authority that Harry wouldn't care for that either!"

He gave her a look that chilled her bones. "I've brought you Bellatrix Lestrange. You know what I want in return," he said, through gritted teeth.

"Yes, but until you're what Hermione wants, you can stew in the mess that you left. I know why you're back, Malfoy, but _how_ are you back?"

To his credit, he seemed to understand what she was asking. The anger left him. At that moment, he looked like nothing more than a man who was tired, who was finished and who wanted to rest. "I'm ready now. It took me a while, but I'm ready and more importantly, I'm able," he explained. "I need to know if she is too."

Ginny gave him a look that was almost admiring. His honesty surprised her. As did that other signature trait of his. "Your arrogance is staggering."

He gave her an impatient glance in return. "It's not arrogance. It's fate."

He wasn't being romantic about the situation. Ginny didn't doubt that he could if he wanted to. That old cunning was still there. Rather, he was just _sure_. Sure of where his place was now and what he wanted. He had come back to see if Hermione could be just as sure.

A part of her wished Harry would be more like that.

Actually, _no_. She didn't wish that at all. Draco Malfoy was a whole other type of complicated no female should ever have to put up with. No, she would take her heroes steadfast and dependable, if a little unsure about matters of the heart.

Of all the people in the world she could have fallen for, trust Malfoy to be the one to catch Hermione's discerning fancy. The woman thrived on complicated.

"What are you doing up at his hour, anyway?" he asked her.

The turn in conversation was decisive. Ginny was actually glad for it.

"Can't sleep. Harry's knackered. I didn't want to wake him up by tossing about in bed."

"And does Mama Weasley know you two…" he searched for a phrase, smirking a little when he apparently found one, "share blankets?"

She scowled at him. The darkness hid most of her blush. He was once again dangling her sore point in front of her. "Oh, piss off. I'm twenty-two."

"In other words, no, she doesn't."

Ginny sighed. There was no way she was going back to sleep now.

Malfoy looked just as awake. She carried her now empty coffee cup back to the kitchen and wasn't surprised when Draco followed her. Idly, Ginny wondered how much solitude he had had to endure in the time he'd been away. There had been hardships, she could see that.

He sat, perched on the edge of the kitchen counter, staring at the rain splattered windows. His hair hung halfway down his back. Some of it had fallen over his face to partially cover one eye.

Ginny wondered if he was thinking about Hermione.

On a whim, she also wondered if Hermione happened to be awake as well, thinking about Malfoy.

"How about a haircut?" Ginny asked him, after a moment's pondering.

That caught him completely off guard. "What?" he blinked.

"How about I give you a haircut? I'm a fair hand with a scissors and no offence, but you have no idea how much you look like your, um, father right now."

The point was that this was not necessarily a good thing if one wanted to convince the Ministry of one's good intentions.

He was eighteen again for a moment, when he absently touched his long hair and stared back at her, as if his appearance could never have possible played a part in his grand plans of winning back Hermione's affections.

This was either extreme modesty or extreme conceit at work. "Do you think so?"

"It was a little unsettling seeing you appear in the kitchen just now," said Ginny, by way of reply.

She was digging through the numerous drawers in the counter, finally holding aloft a pair of large kitchen scissors. Not the best to cut hair with, but oh well. It wasn't like he'd be able to make it to the hairdressers' anytime soon.

"Here we go, then," said Ginny. She kicked out a chair for him.

Suddenly, Malfoy didn't look so sure. He was watching the scissors with mild concern. "Don't we need more light?"

Ah, so the man was mortal after all.

"Don't worry. How I act around you with sharp, pointy objects will depend largely on how Hermione reacts when she finally sees you again. Until then, I'm neutral," she assured, smiling sweetly. The scissors gleamed in the moonlight.

Looking only slightly apprehensive, he obediently took his seat in said chair, with his back to her. "Somehow I don't think Potter will approve of this," he warned.

Ginny had already gathered his thankfully clean hair into a ponytail.

"I suppose I could always do a bad job of it," she offered.

"That you could."

She didn't bother asking him if he preferred one style to another. She got the impression he didn't really care, so she ended up giving him the Weasley standard, which consisted of trying to cut the hair as evenly as possible without leaving any bald patches.

Years of practice on Ron had made her rather proficient, she thought.

Yesterday, if you'd told Ginny she'd be standing in Harry's cavernous kitchen at four in the morning, cutting Draco Malfoy's hair, she'd have patted you on the head and called you a name her mother would have rapped her over the knuckles for.


	52. Chapter 52

**Chapter Fifty-Two**

The Wizengamot was hung-over. Or at least the younger half of it was. The older half ('older' usually meant a century or more) had a noticeable spring in their step and wore their plum coloured hats at a jaunty angle.

Zacharias Smith was the exception to the revelry, but only because his job as Courtroom Scribe specifically entailed paying attention and writing everything down. Being mentally present was pretty much written into his job description. They had experimented with a Dictoquill in the previous year, but that hadn't gone down too well, what with the Quill's penchant for over-description resulting in some very colourful sentencing.

There had been a mass retirement of senior Ministry officials the day after Bellatrix had been taken into custody. Those who had remained to serve out their contracts were in a decidedly celebratory mood, or rather post-celebratory. If the current mood of the Ministry could be colour-coded, it would be a warm and barmy yellow, having been a tense and brittle red for a number of years.

There was a new, hopeful breeze blowing through the ministry and it was blowing right up the Dark Lord's skirts.

Harry emerged from Court Room Eight where an Inquiry Committee was convening and resumed sitting on a bench outside, beside Draco. It had been a very long morning.

"They're only on page ninety-seven of your statement," said Harry, in a slightly accusing tone.

Draco made a noncommittal sound and turned the page on the Daily Prophet he was reading. He had made a point of catching up on current events since his return.

"I suppose it was too much to ask that you could have given them the abridged version?"

"That is the abridged version," Draco replied, still not looking up.

There was a short silence, during which Harry stared down at Draco's black leather lace-up shoes. They were Harry's shoes, as was the (admittedly cheap), dark grey Muggle business suit that Draco was wearing that morning. He hadn't bothered to use any pressing charms on it either. What was slightly irksome was the fact that even bargain basement micro-fibre looked like runway couture on Draco's lanky frame.

Instead of looking unkempt and disrespectful before the Winzengamot, Draco merely looked calm and at ease. Not so Harry, who had spent a sleepless night before the Hearing tossing and turning in bed. So much so that Ginny had kicked him out of the bedroom so she could get some sleep before work that morning.

A distracted Harry had wandered into the dining room, once again leafing through Draco's hundred and seventy-five page statement as if the secrets to a restful sleep lay within the pages.

It felt wrong that such harrowing, disturbing experiences could be put to paper in such precise, elegant and decidedly neat handwriting. It was a lot like watching someone get robbed and bashed to Tchaikovsky.

Draco didn't seem to be at all worried about the prospect of the Committee finding his activities over the past five years suspect enough to order further investigation or require temporary custody at Azkaban while they deliberated.

It was now six weeks since his return and the Ministry Investigators had just turned in their report on whether Draco's lengthy account was fact or fiction.

The statement contained more than a few eye-brow raising incidents. Harry was surprised that some of Draco's more hellish experiences had not left an indelible mark on the man. Or perhaps it did, but hard earned experience just meant that Draco was able to hide it better. Merlin knew he had never been an open book to begin with. Hermione had certainly found him to be interesting reading.

It had taken some willpower on Harry's part to be able to look Draco in the eye again without letting too much emotion show through. It wasn't pity or concern or respect or awe that Harry had felt most strongly, though he did feel all of these things.

Mostly, it was _envy._

Envy that Draco had been able to do what Harry could not bring himself to do – to leave those he loved behind and to embark on his own mission where the only life risked would be his own. It was a constant, insidious temptation.

Harry knew all about the destructive need for revenge and was all too aware that despite the pain it caused, the greater good required that he stay where he was. Lately however, the Greater Good was starting to look a little pudgy and complacent.

Just because Voldemort seemed to be lying low did not mean it was alright for their community to wipe its collective brow and resume life as if nothing untoward had ever happened. That had been their problem the last time Voldemort had vanished.

But that was the difference between the two of them wasn't it? Draco did what he wanted and Harry did what everyone else wanted. Harry would have applauded the other man's courage but for the fact that Draco's actions had directly resulted in Hermione's broken heart.

Selfish or self-less, perhaps that was what the Committee ought to have been deciding.

Presently, the chamber doors swung open and there stood a slightly ink-stained Zacharias. He was massaging the cramp out of his right hand.

"Alright, you can come back in now."

Harry and Draco stood up.

"Just Malfoy this time," Zacharias said, looking a bit warily in Harry's direction. "They're about to make their decision."

Harry sat back down, wordlessly taking the newspaper that Draco had neatly folded and handed to him.

**

"This…mission that you assigned yourself. You would call it revenge?" Dumbledore asked from the judges' balcony.

Draco didn't care too much for his former Headmaster's officious tone of voice, which seemed so out of character for Dumbledore, but he supposed the man had a role to fulfil on the Committee.

"Long, drawn out, often times badly planned revenge, yes."

Another Inquisitor, a grey-haired, middle-aged woman who bore a striking resemblance to Terry Boot spoke next. "This is certainly not light reading, Mister Malfoy," she said, with gravity. "What you have endured…" she waved a hand over the copy of the report that was set down before her, "…near starvation, illness that brought you within a hair's width away from death, periods spent in some atrocious places in even worse company. I daresay your particular upbringing could hardly have prepared you for all of this. And it was all to capture Bellatrix Lestrange and bring her to justice for masterminding the killing of your mother?"

Draco's jaw tensed somewhat, but the look in his eyes was nothing if not cool. "Nothing builds character like a good bout of starvation," he said, lightly.

Horatio Coon, seated in the highest level of Inquisitors, made an impatient sound. He had been surprisingly silent for the most part. "This is no laughing matter!" he warned.

Draco was amused to note that the recently promoted Coon was no longer bald, instead opting for a limp looking toupee in a brassy blond. Really, the man could afford better. The toupee clashed rather badly with the standard issue, purple Winzengamot headwear.

"Neither is having to subsist on dung beetles, I assure you," replied Draco, who missed the slight upward quirk on Dumbledore's mouth.

"Do you have any information regarding the whereabouts of your father, Lucius Malfoy or one Gregory Alexander Goyle?" Dumbledore asked next.

This, Draco guessed, was why they had decided to call an Inquiry instead of merely clearing him on the basis of their own investigations. Ginny Weasley had been correct. In the six weeks since his return, Draco suspected he would most likely have been more forcefully interrogated had it not been for Potter.

"I do not."

"You have shielded yourself from Ministry eyes for five years and in all that time you expect us to believe that you made no attempt to contact your father who also happens to be conveniently missing?" Coon demanded.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do."

Coon sniffed with disdain. It was frighteningly Umbridge-like. "Frankly, I find you unconvincing, Mister Malfoy."

Draco nodded sympathetically. "I feel the same way about your hair, Mister Coon."

Zacharias Smith hastily disguised his laugh as a sudden, unexpected coughing fit, but the noise was already echoing through the large chamber. To his credit as a scribe, his quill never stopped.

There was an undercurrent of muttering as Coon glared down at him, his complexion matching his attire.

Dumbledore cleared his throat and the muttering stopped. Draco could not make out his expression, but he thought Dumbledore looked quite' twinkly'.

"We came to a decision an hour ago," he informed, in a way that felt like they were together alone, talking in Dumbledore's Hogwarts office

Ah, that explained why Coon had such a bee in his bonnet only now.

"After the chief investigator's report submitted this week and after intense deliberation, it is the opinion of this Inquisitorial Committee that you are herewith cleared of all suspicion regarding the escape of your father Lucius Malfoy and the disappearance of Gregory Goyle."

Draco sighed. It had certainly taken them long enough.

Dumbledore broke into a smile "Welcome home, Draco."

**

"You've been doing a splendid job at avoiding Malfoy."

"Thank you," said Hermione, having to shout a little over the wind. "I've been working hard at it."

Ginny sighed, but only because Hermione wouldn't have heard it. They were standing outside the main gates to Azkaban prison, having walked from the security Floopoint, which itself was in danger of being blown away.

Several dark shingles from the tiny guardhouse came off, twirling about in the wind like panicked crows caught in a whirlwind. It was just as well that she had chosen to wear trousers and a thick coat that morning instead of her more usual business robes. The lightweight robes wouldn't have fared well in the harsh North Eastern coastal gale.

The young guard who escorted them was now turning a large key at the wide doors. His free hand was busy keeping his hat on his head.

"Well it can't go on indefinitely," Ginny added. "Plus, I think he's starting to grow on Harry."

"What, you mean like mould?"

Hermione missed Ginny's amused look as the gates to Azkaban Prison swung open, assisted by the wind. The two women were greeted by very still, damp air. It wasn't any warmer than outside though, and certainly much darker despite lit torches attached to the walls at three meter intervals. Hermione pulled her moss green pea coat more tightly about her.

She regretted not bringing along a thicker scarf. The one she had on was very presentable, but something from Molly Weasley's bottomless knitting cupboard would have withstood the cold much better. The wind continued to howl outside, sounding fittingly forlorn.

Another guard approached. He gave Hermione a wide, friendly smile. "Miss Granger. Back already? Not that we mind, of course. Few enough visitors as is."

"Hello Horace. How's the leg?"

"Much better, thank you for asking." The guard turned to Ginny, looking slightly less welcoming now. "Would you please sign in?" he pointed to a large, dog-eared register that was hovering in a corner.

A jittery looking quill was tethered to the book, occasionally trying to make a break for it. Ginny walked over to sign the register and was in turn given a yellow visitor's pass to wear.

"Will you be alright, then?" Horace asked Hermione.

"We'll be fine. I'll take her up myself."

"Still not warming up to me, I see," Ginny remarked, after Horace left to resume his post.

"They're like that with all lawyers," informed Hermione. "The fact that you're the Minister's daughter and you happen to be representing Snape doesn't help matters, of course."

The two women made their way to the lifts. Hermione pressed the button and a loud metallic groaning noise started.

"The fact that I'm representing Snape or the fact that I'm representing him well?"

"Oh? The appeal is going well, then?" Hermione asked.

Ginny's usually full mouth hardened to a thin line. "Hardly, but any reduction to a life sentence is preferable."

Hermione was in agreement. "I've spoken to your father about it, but he says he trusts in the process."

"The fact that we caught Zabini only because Snape set Lucius free doesn't hold much water, unfortunately,"

Ginny said. "There's also the small matter of the Ministry considering Lucius Malfoy to be a greater evil than Blaise Zabini."

Hermione thought of Lucius as she had last seen him in his study at Malfoy Manor: imposing, frightening, seemingly unrepentant of his ill treatment of Draco. "I'm inclined to agree," she said, softly.

It was hard to square that image with the Lucius who had risked his life to free Draco from the Recruiter's hideout in Wales. It had been quite the daring rescue when you considered that Lucius was wanted on both sides of the fray: dead by the Dark, and alive by the Light

"So _are_ you planning on avoiding Malfoy indefinitely?"

Hermione shrugged. She hit the button again since the lift seemed to be taking its time. "He'll be back at Malfoy Manor once the Committee clears him, which will happen soon enough. I'm guessing he'll be busy getting reacquainted with his home and his money."

"You really believe he's only back to see about the manor and his inheritance?" Ginny asked, sounded intrigued.

"His family fortune and status have always been of utmost importance to him. He has always made that quite clear."

"What about revenge?" Ginny prodded. "Spending all that time and energy hunting down the person responsible for his mother's death is hardly a selfish act."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Isn't it?"

"All I'm saying is I think he might have other concerns other than ordering new drapes for his house and counting his piles of money. I'm finding it hard to believe you haven't still got feelings for him."

"That was a long time ago. I was very young," reminded Hermione. With a frown, she pressed the lift button again, more forcefully this time.

"As opposed to being very old now, oh crone of twenty-three?" Ginny replied dryly.

The lift arrived.

Hermione gave her friend an amused, sideways look as they entered. "I was _younger_. You remember our youth, don't you?"

Ginny snorted. "Vaguely."

"I made a mistake. God knows he tried enough times to warn me off. I didn't take the hint, did I? Why are you so intent on defending him all of sudden? You certainly weren't singing his praises a few years back. And does Harry know you two are having late night hair cutting sessions?" Hermione asked, tucking a short coffee-coloured curl behind her ear.

"I have never sung Draco Malfoy's praises, to be sure," Ginny replied coolly. "And I'm not asking you to forgive him, but it's just that you haven't _seen_ him, Hermione. He's…well I know it sounds clichéd but he's changed. Suffering changes a person."

They arrived at the fourth floor, labelled 'Maximum Security' in a dial inside the lift. Hermione held out her palm, ushering Ginny out first. "If he suffered, it was his choice. I didn't make him leave, Ginny. Remember that. He's missed the boat."

"Maybe he felt he had no choice? We were all still children, really. It might have been a bad decision but sometimes we can only make decisions based on our limited understanding of things. And somehow I don't think Malfoy had much experience in anyone caring very much about him unconditionally. What happened on that last day of school would have done anyone's head in. I mean, you _died_, Hermione. Ron says Harry nearly took Zabini's head off."

"You don't leave the people you love," Hermione said, as they were halfway down the corridor. "That's about as simple a rule to understand as you can get. Harry gets it."

Ginny's expression darkened somewhat. "Sometimes I wonder…"

Hermione spun around to give Ginny an incredulous look. "Harry would never leave you!"

"Not for lack of thinking about it, I can tell you!" Ginny seemed surprised at how vehement she sounded.

"Harry harbours some stupid notions," Hermione agreed sympathetically. "But above all other things, Harry is reliable."

They reached another set of gates beside which a young female guard was seated at a tiny desk. She'd been dozing, but quickly stood to attention when the women approached.

Ginny and Hermione wordlessly surrendered their wands and any other restricted magical items they carried on their person. For Ginny, this happened to be a weather predicting locket that Bill had given her for her twentieth birthday.

Hermione removed a piece of blank, rolled up parchment from inside coat and showed it to the guard.

"I need to bring this in with me."

The guard nodded, having already been informed about the item. "You may have twenty minutes with Snape today," she told Ginny.

"I may have as much time with my client as I need, thank you very much," Ginny retorted, sounding annoyed.

The young woman shook her head. "Twenty minutes, Miss Weasley. Only he's due to be questioned by the DMLA at ten thirty."

"What about?" Hermione asked, frowning.

"The Malfoy heir's return, is all I was told. Routine questioning to wrap up the case." The young guard leaned closer to Hermione. "Word is that Snape freaked out when he heard Malfoy was back. Maybe he thought it was the other Malfoy, you know, the father."

Now _that_ would have been something to worry about, Hermione thought. "I seriously doubt Severus Snape could 'freak out' if he tried," she deadpanned.

"I guess I'll be finished long before you," Ginny sighed. "Don't wait for me."

"Care to swap?" Hermione mused.

Ginny shuddered. "For Bellatrix? Thanks, but no thanks. The things you do for the Department of Mysteries. I'd rather shovel dragon dung for Neville's botanical menagerie."

Hermione peered into the darkness. The corridor seemed to go on forever and this wasn't due to magic. Azkaban was just that creepy and gloomy.

"Last cell on the right, isn't it?" she asked the guard.

"Yes, Miss Granger."

Ginny wished her good luck and was quickly off in the opposite direction, to spend what little time she had with her difficult client that morning.

**

Bellatrix Lestrange's cell was identical to every other cell in Azkaban prison. It was five feet by six feet of stone along three walls, while be-spelled metal bars made up the fourth wall. There was a narrow cot built into one stone wall and a privy basin recessed in the opposite wall.

Each cell was also encircled by wards. In the absence of Dementors, this was something of a necessity given how difficult it was to actually keep a witch or wizard in a place if they didn't want to be at. With or without a wand.

The status of the prisoner invariably determined the strength and type of wards used. Suffice to say that Bellatrix's cell had been literally doused with spells, so much so that it exuded a faint glow. It might not have done much to lessen the general eeriness of the place, but at least it provided additional lighting.

As it happened, there were currently no other female prisoners at Azkaban. That was still enough to make Hermione obliged to feel embarrassed on behalf of her entire gender.

"Hello Bellatrix."

The prisoner rose in a fluid motion, from where she had been seated on her cot. A mere husk of her former self, Bellatrix was skin and bones and wildly matted, greying hair. Her eyes were a wild, deep, blistering blue. They looked out of place in her gaunt face. As wasted as she was now, there was still an echo of great beauty about her. Grace, even. No denying the Blacks had that quality about them.

"Well, well, well. Potter's little Mudblood has come to see me. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

For such a frail looking creature, her voice was deep and resonant. It was a fitting match for her eyes, Hermione thought. She couldn't recall Bellatrix's voice sounding quite so commanding, but she supposed the only other time she recalled hearing the woman was when Bellatrix had been cackling madly at Harry and the others at the Ministry in their fifth year.

It was not exactly a pleasant memory.

Bellatrix trailed her fingers along the bars of her cell as she observed her visitor, looking nothing more than coy and curious. The wards crackled at this contact.

They had given her the standard Azkaban black-striped tunic and pants to wear. There was no denying the regal way she bore this attire, as if it was silk and brocade and not rough homespun cotton covering her skeletal frame.

Hermione unfurled the magically treated parchment. She only needed a moment to copy Bellatrix's Dark Mark and really, she had no intention of spending any more time in the woman's presence than strictly required.

"I'm here to take an imprint of your Mark. Pass your arm out through the bars." It was not a request.

Bellatrix stared down at the paper for a moment and then lifted taunting eyes to Hermione. "Couldn't find a real Auror to start my interrogation? What have you people been doing for two months now? Or is it three?" Her easy insolence was very reminiscent of Sirius. She turned to the wall behind her, licking her lips somewhat distractedly. "Can't see the moon…"

"I'm not here today as an interrogator, but rest assured, they haven't forgotten about you," Hermione replied, though Bellatrix didn't seem to want to listen.

"It wasn't an Auror who brought me in, in the end, though, was it? Your people couldn't do the job. Lucius' boy got me in the end. Fancy that? I suppose it makes sweet sense…"

Hermione couldn't help it. Of course she had realized she wouldn't have been able to help it the moment she had been assigned the task. Scrimgeour was going to be cranky with her for speaking with the prisoner before the interrogators did their job. The next words out of her mouth were no surprise to her.

"You murdered his mother."

A muscle in Bellatrix's wasted face twitched. She blinked, licked her lips again

"No I did not. The boy, Zabini. He did it."

"Under your orders," Hermione reminded, dispassionately.

"Cissa was _weak._ " Bellatrix hissed, spittle gathering at the corners of her mouth. "She had always been weak. Now, Andromeda was a pig fucking blood traitor. A whore for Muggles, but at least…at least our dear, demented Andromeda had the Black fortitude." She started pacing in her small cell as she ranted. "I would have guessed my nephew would go the same way as his mother; weak minded, weak willed. How wrong I was. I suppose there was more of his father in him than anyone would have guessed. Draco included, I'm sure. The Malfoys have always been tenacious creatures."

Here, her expression softened somewhat. She still looked crazy, though. "Ah, my beautiful nephew. That boy walked through hell to get to me, did you know? I know. Oh yes, yes, yes, I know. That hell was of my own design, after all. How long was he on my trail for? I heard it said…"

"Five years," Hermione said absently, suddenly feeling colder.

Bellatrix's eyebrow rose. She looked lost in thought for a moment. "Five years? Truly? Shame, such dedication should be made to serve the Dark Lord." Her eyes narrowed on Hermione. Her mind seemed to refocus, mid-rant.

"It is wasted on you _filth_," she enunciated, with an expression of pure malevolence, "you sheep. Who would have thought our Draco would turn like he has? Not so much a coward in the end, but even that would have been better. He should die from the shame of it alone. Cissa did," Bellatrix said, nodding wildly. "She died because she dared to contemplate a different life for her and her son. Poor misguided, besotted Narcissa thought to escape her destiny."

There we go again with this destiny shite, Hermione thought. She had already had a gutful of it with Draco.

"We all have a choice, Bellatrix."

"And your tainted blood determines the choices you make, Mudblood. It cannot be helped in your case," Bellatrix said, in a voice that reeked of unshakeable conviction.

Hermione realized she was staring at a mad woman but she was still struck with an overwhelming urge to do Bellatrix violence. It would have been justice, for all the innocent lives she has taken and even more lives and families ruined, for all the poison she had spread in her lifetime.

But it was not her job to dispense said justice.

Despite the Ministry's shortcomings, despite its dubious tactics, Arthur Weasley was right in the end. There was a process.

And despite the unfairness of all that the Ministry had done to Draco five years ago, despite the loss he endured, somehow he had still believed enough in that process not to exact the ultimate revenge on Bellatrix. Merlin knew he had had the opportunity to kill her.

Hermione felt a pain in her chest as she thought this. Real or imaginary, she couldn't quite tell. It felt real. It might have been from keeping her anger and disgust hidden from Bellatrix. Or it might have just been her extreme distaste for the job she had been assigned that morning.

But she knew it was probably from the crack that was spreading along the rock hard casing she had been using to keep her heart in. It wasn't entirely a bad feeling, but it was certainly a terrifying one.

Giving in to some of her anger, Hermione walked up to the bars of Bellatrix's cell and said, in a very calm and precise manner, "After we're through with you, we're going to find Tom Riddle and then we're going to stop him. Permanently."

Bellatrix bared her teeth in a feral snarl. Hermione wasn't finished.

"Give me your arm or I'll have two large Muggleborn wizards come in here, strip you bare for no other purpose than because it would please me to see you demeaned. And then, Bellatrix I'll take my sweet time making an imprint of your Dark Mark."

Bellatrix rewarded Hermione with a look of pure malice before she stuck her stick thin, right arm out between two bars. Her pale skin was loose and papery. The Dark Mark was stretched and faded on the inside of her forearm. Hermione took great care not to touch it directly, as she laid the paper over the infected flesh. When she removed the parchment, a copy had transferred across onto the paper, a perfect replica to study from.

Fleeting, ghostly images of an impossibly black pair of wings danced across her vision. Hermione blinked and the unwelcome, memory faded.


	53. Chapter 53

**Chapter Fifty-Three**

It took just a little bit of effort for Draco to leave Grimmauld Place unnoticed the morning after the Inquiry passed down its findings. While they had thus far managed to keep Draco's return a secret within the Ministry, word was well and truly out now.

It hadn't taken long for the reporters to come calling.

Lucius' escape and Draco's conveniently-timed disappearance still occasionally made the news. 'Malfoy sightings' were rife, especially in the summer when people went on holiday, had one too many afternoon cocktails and simply _swore_ they had seen father, son or both on a beach in Majorca or at a bazaar in Marrakech.

Harry likened it to Elvis sightings and then spent ten minutes explaining who Elvis Pressley was to a mostly disinterested Draco.

Draco hadn't arrived with much in the way of luggage. Harry had taken one look at the woebegone, sand logged, faintly camel urine-scented cotton sack _thing_ he had brought into the house and ordered it burned and buried.

It hadn't taken Draco long to throw his few threadbare belongings into a knapsack and join Harry downstairs for one final breakfast before Harry left for work that morning.

Harry had insisted on this, unfortunately.

Malfoy Manor was an hour's broom-flight from London. Pansy Parkinson, the current Ministry-authorized caretaker of the Malfoy estate was currently in situ. Harry had confirmed this for Draco.

The man known as the Boy Who Lived snuck a peek behind the heavy velvet drapes at the windows of the first floor drawing room of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place and was immediately blinded by the brilliant white flash of a dozen eager, camera-wielding reporters.

"They're out early," remarked a still sleepy Harry. "I haven't seen it like this since I first moved in here."

Unfazed, Draco was pulling on his newly mended boots. "Don't worry your pretty black head over it, Potter. I'll go out the back way."

"That would work if we had a back way," Harry informed, a little too cheerfully.

Draco stood and stared at him, "You're telling me this old house doesn't have a back door?"

"I've been meaning to have one installed," Harry said. "I can't see why you won't just Floo there?"

Draco didn't want to Floo or Apparate home because one just didn't 'pop' into the ancestral home they hadn't seen in five years. That was just plain disrespectful. He would walk up to the front door and knock to enter.

"I said don't worry about it. I'll give them the slip once I'm in the air."

Harry looked amused. "You obviously haven't met the new breed of Prophet reporters."

An annoyed Draco walked up to the windows and snuck a peek through the curtains. Though to be fair he didn't so much 'sneak a peek' as march up to the window and pull aside the drapes to scowl at the reporters.

"Who is that up the front? Looks like two and a half Colin Creeveys…"

"That would be Colin Creevey. He's been working out."

Colin, apparently, had also just spotted Draco at the window. The camera flashing briefly intensified.

"Is Pansy expecting you at the Manor?" Harry asked.

"No."

Harry didn't press the issue. That had been the standard reply to a lot of Harry's more personal questions. It bothered Harry that he couldn't quite say if he and Draco were friends or not. Friends would be more inclined to probe. More to the point, it bothered Ginny, who kept goading Harry into wringing some sort of declaration of camaraderie out of Draco.

She saw this as a necessary step before allowing Draco to pursue Hermione again.

Harry loved Ginny dearly, but he thought she was a bit naive to assume that Draco was the sort to wait to be 'allowed' to pursue anything, much less Hermione.

Malfoy did what he wanted. That aspect of him was unchanged.

It was impossible to tell what Draco was thinking. If he had been closed off when he was a teenager, he was downright monastic about his feelings now. Harry thought he might be happy and relieved since being cleared of any suspicion by the Inquisitorial Committee, but really, who could bloody tell?

What really bothered Harry was that Draco seemed to be living life on a razor's edge, even after six weeks of being housed, fed, clothed and having Harry for dull conversation a couple of hours most evenings.

There was an alertness about Draco that Harry found unsettling. It irked Harry immensely because this alertness was proving contagious and Harry didn't enjoy feeling antsy in his own home.

It wasn't paranoia, which frankly would have been more understandable given what Draco had recently been through. Rather, it was just Draco's natural state of being.

It seemed an unlikely prospect that some revenge-bent Voldemort fanatic was going to somehow break into the house and off them in their sleep, but that didn't stop Draco from undertaking self-imposed guard duty at night, checking doors, windows and wards. On the occasions that they had to present themselves at the Ministry, Harry felt like he had his very own, one-man security detail.

So then, were they friends?

Harry was inclined to think not. Friends trusted each other. Draco trusted no one.

Harry guessed that there was only one person on the planet who would have ready access to Draco's arguably complex inner workings. The only thing was that said person apparently didn't want anything to do with Draco at this point in time. Hermione had made this fact quite clear every time the topic of Draco was brought up in her presence.

Draco's guard never eased, not even in the relative safety and privacy of Grimmauld Place. This wasn't intentional on Draco's part, Harry understood this. Rather, it was most likely the product of living life on the run for so long. It had to be mentally exhausting, thought Harry, to never feel like you were safe enough or _home_ enough to relax for a minute.

Harry couldn't do anything about enabling Draco to feel truly safe, but he could at least assist with the 'home' part. That sort of homecoming ought to be a private affair. Getting Draco to Malfoy Manor without half of an extremely persistent British wizarding media in hot pursuit was going to be tricky.

He didn't realize he was eyeing Draco rather intently until the latter drawled at him from the landing.

"Your sudden interest in my trousers is worrying, Potter. Speak."

"Hmm," was all Harry said, followed closely by an equally worrying, "what size are you again?"

**

Colin Creevey was having a bad day. He and his unflappable junior assistant, Jessica, had thus far managed to amass a collection of photographs featuring the brickwork at the front of Grimmauld Place, numerous shots of the first floor windows and several close ups of someone's nose poking through the small parting at the curtains.

No one was going to pay for pictures of an anonymous nose.

Nothing so far of their intended subject, Draco Malfoy, who was bound to take off from under Harry Potter's watchful eye now that he had been officially cleared by the Ministry.

Colin's informant at the Magical Transportation Department had so far confirmed that there had been no Floo travel from Grimmauld Place that morning. That was clever of Malfoy. Floo travel could be tracked. Broom-flight could not.

Well, not unless you were prepared to give chase, which they most certainly were.

No one even knew if Harry was still at home that morning, but Malfoy definitely was. They had just seen him.

Three hours of waiting in the blistering cold paid off when Draco finally made his move. The eager-to-be-promoted Jessica was the first to notice.

"There he is!" she shrieked, her voice scratchy from the cold.

The miserable lot of them, putting all thoughts of collegial competition aside, had huddled together for warmth. They didn't so much spring into action, as creep into it.

Someone from Witch Weekly groaned that it was good to feel his feet again.

It was Malfoy. They all recognized the faded brown pants and the thick, black wool jacket he had been wearing moments ago at the window. He had pulled up the hood of the jacket and wrapped a scarf around the lower half of his face.

There was a brief look directed at them - Colin could briefly make out disdain, it _had_ to be disdain. And then Malfoy was on his broom and up into the air at a dizzying speed.

Time to earn some rent money, Colin decided, as he and his assistant mounted their brooms.

**

Draco waited until the agreed upon twenty minutes had lapsed, before he made his undetected exit from Grimmauld Place. There wasn't a reporter in sight.

Potter was a excellent flier, Draco had to admit. Much better than when they had been children.

Potter also happened to be wrong.

They were not _exactly_ the same size, judging from the fact that Potter's flying robes were a little on the short side.

**

Coming home shouldn't have felt like this, thought Draco. Especially not coming to _his_ home. Merlin, he was actually nervous.

He hovered for a moment, flexing his gloved hands. Draco could not recall the last time he had suffered sweaty palms. And this was despite the stingingly cold, country air. He has flown low over the bordering village of Thimble Creek, below the cover of shadowy frost and mist and marvelled at what looked to be a tenfold increase in its previously tiny population.

With Lucius gone, magic had been restored to the community and its inhabitants could now make a living again. The old residents must have come back. Either that or new magical folk had chosen to settle there.

There was a brand new village green and several merchant dwellings. Draco could make out new cottages on the outskirts. Everywhere he looked, there were people starting their work for the day.

There were also children. Draco could barely recall the last time he had seen children in Thimble Creek. As he flew, he felt like an interloper, a part of the estate's dark and depressing past.

It felt almost wrong to return.

For a moment, something young and afraid in him briefly sparked and he nearly turned back. But there was nowhere to go back to.

Then, over the treetops he caught sight of Malfoy Manor proper and very easily squashed that old urge. He touched down completely silently just beyond the main, iron gates and spent a moment just staring.

Despite it being winter, it was _green_ The trees were bare, but the twin row of manicured hedges that bordered the long path leading to the bisected front steps of the house was vibrant and healthy. Draco savoured the sight as one only could after spending as much time in barren desert as he had.

Pansy certainly kept good house.

He removed his wand and touched the gate with it. It swung open smoothly and silently. Rust and corrosion was now a part of its recent history. He slung his broom over his shoulder and started walking, sharp gravel crunching under his booted feet.

The Manor itself had received a fresh coat of paint. Draco could not help but be amused by the fact that not even an industrial strength white-washing was enough to remove the gothic oppressiveness of the place. The house still had a character all its own. The roof and window frames had been mended, the glass-paned windows scrubbed free of grime.

And as he reached the central entrance, which was flanked by thick, white pillars, he could see that the marble had been polished and restored and the enormous brass dragon knockers on the front doors gleamed at him.

Dejavu hit, strong and hard. He recalled the last time he had stood on that same doorstep, feeling a different measure of discomfort at the prospect of informing his father about his ill-fated marriage to Hermione.

Hermione had stood at his side, scared, brave, dishevelled, beguiling. Resilient in the face of their predicament and naïve enough to believe that Draco's presence alone would keep her safe from all manner of evil. Lucius Malfoy or otherwise.

He really ought to have held her hand.

Draco used the knocker and waited. It didn't take long. There was the staccato of footsteps behind the door and then it was wrenched open. Pansy stood there, immaculately dressed in deep purple robes.

She didn't look in the least bit surprised to see him standing there.

"About time," Pansy said and then she threw herself into his arms.

**

"Ahem."

Draco looked over the top of Pansy's dark head and observed a skinny, dark-haired, young man glowering at them from the foot of the staircase. He was wielding a feather duster, although from the mood of the situation it might as well have been a machete.

A sniffling Pansy extricated herself from Draco's light embrace and beamed up at him with moist, blue eyes.

And then she punched him hard, in the arm.

"I could kill you for all the worry you put me through!"

"Take a number," Draco muttered, rubbing his bicep. "Who is that?" he inclined his chin at the still glowering young man, who seemed intent on witnessing what Pansy might have preferred to be a private moment.

"Oh." Pansy blushed and straightened her hair even though it didn't need straightening. "Draco, this is Boris, my manservant."

Boris clicked his heels together by way of greeting. The feature duster lowered, but the glower remained.

There was something in the manner of the introduction that warranted further attention, but for the moment, Draco was otherwise occupied noting all the work Pansy had put into restoring the Manor.

The place had been given a thorough once over with a fresh, light, Rococo flourish. Most of the elegant and ornate pieces Narcissa had acquired had been reclaimed from Manor storage, polished to a fine sheen and put to effective use.

"Pansy, you've done a remarkable job with the place," he told her, genuinely impressed.

Pansy's small face suffused with pleasure at the compliment.

"Remember, I was born for this, Draco."

He tilted his head down at her. "So you kept telling me," he murmured. "I don't think I ever fully appreciated how much work it takes to maintain all of this."

Pansy sobered a little. "Your mother did an excellent job, may she rest. I just patched up what I could. She linked her arm through his. "Come on, I'll give you the grand tour before I interrogate you. Boris, would you serve us tea in the drawing room?"

Pansy may have been a most capable Lady of the Manor, but her servant was no obedient House Elf. There was faintly mutinous expression on his surly face.

"Please?" she added sharply, narrowing her eyes at Boris.

Who mumbled something incoherent and was off. His walk was oddly lumbering for such a slight person.

Draco gave her a raised eyebrow at this, to which she responded with an eye roll. "Don't worry, I'm taking him with me when I leave."

The tour started with the library, which was benefiting from a new, enormous Persian rug and a completely retiled fireplace. Draco recognized the large gilt mirror that sat above the fireplace. It had been in one of the guest rooms previously. There was a framed antique map of the British Isles between the mahogany book cases, magical of course. Every so often a tiny, inky sail ship would launch from the southern coastline, making a beeline for France.

This tour carried on through to the bedrooms, most of which had been left untouched except for a fresh coat of paint in Draco's old bedroom and new bed-hangings in a rich brown and gold satin. Nearly Gryffindor colours, Draco mused.

There were fresh flowers in his mother's old bedroom and Draco noticed that Pansy had replaced several portraits of her that had previously been taken down by Lucius. He paused at the only one that featured the three of them – him and his parents. It was the last portrait they had sat for before Narcissa had left the Manor.

Pansy came to stand beside him. The scent of her perfume was strong in the enclosed space. "I've always liked this one," she said. "How old were you?"

"Twelve," Draco replied. His voice sounded far away to him.

The painting was nearly from a different lifetime. He observed his twelve-year old self, lamented a little the challenging tilt to his jaw and the ridiculous robe with the frilly cravat his mother had made him wear. He kept pulling at it in the painting. There had also been a matching hat which he had flatly refused to have anything to do with. Narcissa sat in a chair, her pale, elegant hands demurely folded in her lap. She didn't move much, just slowly blinked, as if she was still sitting for the portrait.

There was no smile. Narcissa never smiled in portraits because she said it dated them. Draco couldn't understand how that worked. Smiles were timeless.

Lucius stood almost casually behind Narcissa, one forearm draped over the back of the chair, tall-booted feet crossed. This was before his conviction of course, four years before his wand had been taken from him. There was nothing of defeat in his expression. His handsome face radiated mastery of all that he surveyed, including the observer.

Pansy had been staying in a guest bedroom in the East Wing. Not surprisingly, pink featured prominently. What made Draco take real notice, however, was the bed. Or rather, the assortment of stuffed elephants that jostled for space on the silk coverlet.

It was a herd and a half of fuzzy elephants in different sizes arranged in neat rows. There were more than there had been before, he was sure of it. In the middle of it all, sat what Draco knew was the oldest of the lot – a large, furry yellow affair whose ears looked like they could do with a re-stitching.

He turned to give Pansy an incredulous look, but she was wholly occupied explaining the composition of the bed hangings to him.

Draco barely held on to his tongue.

There was a chance he was making a highly incorrect assumption, but he doubted it.

They visited his father's study next. Or rather, they stopped at the door. They were standing in the exact spot where he had nearly kissed Hermione the day they visited his father.

Pansy misunderstood his hesitation. "Would you like a moment alone?"

He dredged up a suitable reply. "No, it's alright. I think I'll skip this room for now. Plenty of time to get reacquainted later."

She nodded, took his hand and led them to the nearby drawing room.

"There wasn't much to do in there, anyway. Toolip kept it spotless even after your father left. She said that was how he would have wanted it."

"Where is Toolip, by the way? You haven't retired her have you?"

"That elf?" Pansy scoffed. "I'd have more luck seducing Harry Potter. She's in the village running errands."

"Speaking of Thimble Creek. The change there is nothing short of remarkable," Draco noted.

Pansy grinned. "It is isn't it? It's all because of Hornbeam. I'm having the villagers plant it. It would have been impossible to maintain the place with the small amount of money the Ministry allotted to me to stay here. So I had to find some other way to generate income. The soil on your estate is apparently the best in the country for it. Took us a while to work out how to process the wood, but once we did, we've been selling it directly to the wand-makers and a few apothecaries. The village has benefited from the profits, as you can see for yourself."

They entered the drawing room and were seated at opposite-facing, striped satin couches beside the fireplace. Pansy stoked the fire while Draco removed his gloves and put them into his pocket.

"They're nice," Pansy said, admiring the cashmere lined leather. It was obvious the expensive gloves did not match the rest of Draco's arguable basic attire. Pansy was big on details.

"They're Potter's. Along with everything else I'm wearing at the moment," he admitted, with some resignation. "I've been threatened with decapitation if I don't return the gloves in particular."

Pansy smoothed her skirt and then stared at him for a moment, hey eyes huge with wonder. "I still can't believe it really is you sitting here across from me."

Draco gave her a fond look. "Have I aged that horribly?"

She laughed. It was the same laugh from school, girlish with a dash of condescension. "Draco darling, even with that haircut you're sporting, you'll be beautiful when you're a hundred and eight." She turned serious. "But was it so very awful as the papers are suggesting? They say you were in Africa for a time. Is that true?"

"I ended up in Egypt," Draco confirmed. "I was in Europe for two years before that."

"What happened in Egypt?"

For a moment, it looked like he wasn't going to go into detail, but then he said, "I tracked Bellatrix to Cairo, and then she fled to Kenya. I ended up catching her in Nairobi and brought her back to Cairo before we came here. That's the short of it."

"Yes," Pansy said, shuddering. Her eyes were wide. "And I bet all the bits in between would give me nightmares. Tell me something? Could it have been done if you'd come back to the Ministry with the information they needed to find her?"

The Committee had of course covered this question from all angles. He told her the same thing he told them.

"Possibly," Draco allowed, "but I think I only managed because I was able to immerse myself in her operations, so to speak. It took a very long time to get close enough without her knowing. I can't begin to describe how paranoid she was towards the end."

"And with good reason, it would seem," Pansy surmised.

His sardonic smile was his reply.

"Do you still have feelings for Granger?" she asked, with an almost cruel indifference. "Only you've been here for over an hour and you haven't once mentioned her name. One can hardly forget the circumstances in which you left," Pansy pointed out. "Or speculate as to why you've come back, for that matter."

"My feelings in that regard are unchanged," said Draco, evenly.

"You're going to have a hard time making her trust you again. I would never forgive you, even taking into account the fact that you've brought Bellatrix Lestrange back as an apology gift."

"Thank you, Pansy."

She gave him a slightly apologetic look. "I'm sorry for being so pessimistic. Four months ago, August Winthrop was killed on a mission to a village in Devonshire. He and Millicent had only been married two weeks when it happened."

"Fucking hell," Draco hissed. "What happened?"

"Oddly enough, someone had claimed to have seen _you_ there. The Ministry sent two people to check, which is what they usually do whenever there's a Malfoy sighting, be it you or your father. No one expected that they'd walk right into a Death Eater campsite. These were not Aurors that the Ministry sent. Winthrop was an Administrator, for Merlin's sake. Millicent has been absolutely inconsolable since. Love is horrid a burden, Draco," she said, a bit too fiercely for it not to be a personal comment. "It makes you vulnerable to all sorts of pain, but I'm sure you know that already."

"Which is why you remain happily single, of course?" Draco watched her closely.

She blinked at being the focus of the topic change. "Why yes, exactly."

Draco slung his arm over the headrest of the couch and craned his neck towards the doorway. "Your Boris appears to be taking some time with that tea."

As if on que, there was a distant noise of a cupboard door closing too hard, followed by the sound of something fragile and expensive breaking.

Pansy looked startled for a moment, but quickly recovered with a smile. "The kitchen is some distance away."

Draco hid his amusement. "Yes, I remember."

Pansy's smile turned tight. She rose to her feet. "I'll just see what's keeping him, shall I?"

After a moment's deliberation, Draco removed Harry's prized gloves from his pocket and deliberately left them on the seat next to him.

**

He stayed for three hours. At least Pansy made a much better cup of tea than Potter did. She had decided that she would throw a soiree in a fortnight, to officially open the Manor again and to welcome back its rightful owner. Draco knew better than to decline. It was Pansy's send-off, more than anything else, and he could not begrudge her that.

Draco insisted that she stay on to oversee the obviously successful Hornsbeam business that she was running with the Thimble Creek residents, but she assured that there was already a capable replacement manager trained from the village. It took a bit more digging, but she eventually revealed that she would be relocating to Italy's south, to live in the modest rural home she had purchased and was almost finished refurbishing.

Boris, whom Pansy said was practically unemployable, would have to accompany her.

Out of pity, she claimed.

Pansy was many things, but Draco had never known her to be a soft touch.

Draco would stay in the village inn until the handover was official in two weeks, despite her protests that he immediately move into his old room. After six weeks with Potter, Draco was more than ready for a bit of breathing space.

He was already halfway to the wrought iron gates at the front of the estate, before an out of breath Boris caught up with him.

"Mr. Malfoy, you forgot these!" he called out, holding aloft Harry's gloves.

Draco turned to him, looking impatient. He snatched the gloves back. "Merlin's tits, Goyle, took you long enough. If I walked any slower, I'd be standing still."

Goyle's mouth dropped open. He looked like a goldfish for about half a minute. "What…you…you _know_!"

"Yes, I know," Draco snapped. "If that over the top display of possessiveness in the foyer wasn't enough to convince me, that multi-coloured safari on Pansy's bed certainly would have done the trick."

The gaping mouth closed. "Yes, well she likes elephants," Goyle muttered.

"So I gather." Draco sighed. "Why the hell are you here? If they catch you, you'll be doing life in Azkaban! Not to mention what they'd do to her!"

"They're not going to catch me. I'm Boris, remember?"

"Which leads me to ask, where is the real Boris?" Draco narrowed his eyes. "Or don't I want to know?"

"He's a clerk working in Ulaanbaatar in Mongolia. Hasn't a clue about all of this and we happen to have enough of his hair to make another year's supply of Polyjuice and…yes ok, you don't want to know."

Draco frowned, "Well you bloody well better hope no one comes back from a holiday there and wonders why some foreign village clerk they only just saw overseas, is polishing brassware for Pansy Parkinson in Wiltshire!"

"Who the hell goes to Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia for holiday?"

Draco thought for a moment. "Good point," he conceded.

Goyle shuffled on his feet and then had the audacity to grin at him. "Good to see you by the way. Even if you do look like hell."

Draco wondered if he was doomed to hear about his faded good looks, indefinitely. "How long have you been Boris the Manservant?"

"Two years."

He got angry all over again. "Fuck me, Goyle! I would have thought that by now the two of you would have put into action whatever half-arsed plan you'd hatched!"

"Yes well, it's been nice just living here in peace with her after the stuff I had to do…you'd know all about it, I expect. It's a wonder she took me back even! You can't blame us for wanting a little stability."

"You should have just told me! I'm insulted that neither you nor Pansy thinks that I can be trusted."

"Malfoy, with all due respect, we only found out you were alive less than two months ago. We didn't know what to think until we saw you again. For all we knew, you could have been sent to track me down for running away from the Death Eaters."

"And what do you think now?"

Goyle considered the question. "I think you're back for the same reasons I came back. And I think there's something Pansy neglected to mention…"

Draco stared at him, curious. "Yes?"

Goyle still hesitated. "Well, I'm only _guessing_ Pansy didn't tell you because right now you don't look like you want to kill anyone..."

"I know about Snape," Draco interrupted. "I'm in a position to do something about it now that I've got my identity back."

Goyle nodded quickly. "Of course it's disgusting what happened to him. He got time for setting Lucius free, but then there was also the unauthorized use of Veritaserum on Pansy when he questioned her that final night at Hogwarts. She even wrote a letter saying she didn't care about it, but that did nothing. Dumbledore pulled out all the stops to keep him out of jail, but Snape's record wasn't in his favour."

"If it's not about Snape, what is it Pansy should have told me?"

Goyle now looked incredibly uncomfortable. "Nicholas Winter," he said, in a rush. "He's Muggleborn, works in Granger's department. August Winthrop and Winter were good friends. Pansy used to have August and Millicent over all the time for dinner and well…I overheard a lot, being the dutiful, hovering servant that I am."

"Nicholas Winter?" Draco enunciated, his expression darkening.

"He's Granger's boss. Well not boss, really. More like supervisor. Maybe not even that. I think he might just be a colleague. I could be wrong. August was always going on about how Nick practically ran that department."

Draco impatiently held up a hand. "Greg, _who the fuck_ is Nicholas Winter and why do I suddenly feel this murderous rage you spoke about earlier."

Goyle gave his old friend a sympathetic look. "He's Granger's boyfriend."


	54. Chapter 54

**Chapter Fifty-Four**

Pansy Parkinson certainly knew how to throw a party.

Hermione accepted the slender, crystal champagne flute that Nick was offering her. She took a distracted sip and was momentarily caught off guard by the light and lively rosé. It was honestly delightful, as was everything else in the ballroom, of course. Pansy was not one to do things by halves.

The pink champagne was the only spot of noticeable colour in the decoration. The rest of it was a blanket of ivory-white. The ceiling was completely covered in swathes of ivory silk, draped in such a way that the abundant candlelight created dancing shadows across the rippling ceiling.

It was like looking at clouds from under water, which unfortunately was not something Hermione necessarily wanted to be reminded off.

The fabric wrapped around each of the four main pillars, pooling in an artfully arranged silken puddle around the base of each pillar. Hermione was standing in front of one such pillar, imagining herself to be Beanstalk Jack, in the Land of the Giants. She felt towered over and knew it had nothing to do with height. Being that nervous tended to mentally shrink you a little.

Liveried waiters circulated with champagne and canapés, so discreet that you didn't realize one was at your elbow until you actually fancied a drink or a bite to eat. Though if you preferred to stay in the one spot, there were two long tables at either end of the rectangular room, laden with food. A fierce looking Goblin lute and fiddle duo was nestled in the far corner. They did not take kindly to requests, as was recently discovered by Neville Longbottom.

At one hour into the party, the ballroom was not yet filled to capacity. Hermione estimated that were already about two hundred people present.

It was a good mix. There were former Slytherins. Lots of them. The Gryffindor contingent was there courtesy of Harry. Scattered about were alumni from other Houses. There were Hogwarts teachers minus Dumbledore and several Ministerial department heads, including Nick's boss. Ron was conspicuously absent, having agreed to spend the weekend at the Burrow to spend quality time with his mother. Molly Weasley was in the throes of empty-nest syndrome since Ginny had just moved in permanently at Grimmauld Place.

Hermione now regretted not accepting Nick's dinner invitation before the party. There just hadn't been any time. She had got changed at work and lamented that she taken the opportunity to use pressing charms on her dress. At least the deep blood-red colour was forgiving when it came to wrinkles. She really ought to have planned her outfit better, but putting any more thought into the evening was going to make her brain explode. She'd already been completely useless at work that day. On a whim, she had thrown on an even darker red, sleeveless oriental-print tunic over the dress. It laced up at the front like a corset, falling to the floor an inch before the dress ended.

There hadn't been much time to fuss over her hair, which was just as well since it was a fuss-free hair cut. She ran some styling cream through the curls with her fingers. Shoes were another matter altogether. It was too cold for anything open-toed, so she'd pulled a pair of dark brown, tall and skinny high heeled boots purchased in London on a shopping trip with her mother.

They were probably inappropriate for evening wear, but her dress was long and really, who was going to notice? Nick, bless him, didn't know the difference between an Ugg Boot and an espadrille.

Draco Malfoy probably did, though.

_"And why do you care?"_ asked an irritating little voice that sounded a lot like her eighteen year old self.

Her hungry stomach rumbled. She was only sipping at the champagne because it gave her something to do. Unfortunately it was going straight to her head. It wasn't an entirely unpleasant state of affairs. The heavy, woozy feeling started at her knees and moved up to her head.

Annoyed with herself, she placed the drink on the first empty waiter's tray that buzzed past.

Nick remained at her side, warm and attentive. He looked very nice in his dark suit and tie. Hermione was grateful that he wasn't asking any questions about why she seemed intent on hiding behind the large, ice sculpture at the north end of the ballroom for the past hour.

The sculpture just _had_ to be a dragon, didn't it? Its eyes looked to be glace cherries or something similar. She moved closer for a better look, wondering if anyone would notice if she poked out one of the cherries.

"You know, we can leave whenever you want," Nick said in her ear. "In fact, we didn't even need to come."

That was very understanding of him. She could expect no less of Nick.

Hermione hadn't gone into too much detail about her history with Draco, but after six months of casual dating, Nick knew enough to assume that at some stage Draco Malfoy had meant something to Hermione. More importantly, he knew that it hadn't ended very well.

He was right. She didn't need to be there. She'd been invited, of course, though there was no mention on the silver embossed invitation that Draco was specifically doing the inviting.

Draco was the guest of honour, but it was Pansy Parkinson's party. She'd politely RSVP'd that she would be going as Nick's date. Nick was friends with Pansy through their mutual acquaintance of August Winthrop. The _late_ August Winthrop, Hermione morosely reminded herself. Yet another death because of the Malfoys, albeit indirectly. Millicent Winthrop, nee Bullstrode wasn't there, of course.

Hermione wished Nick would make some conversation. She felt a little foolish standing around, doing nothing.

Another waiter walked past and a resigned Hermione took a fresh flute of champagne. On the opposite end of the ballroom, Harry was flicking bits of food off his canapé with studious concentration.

Beside him was Ginny, looking lovely in sea green robes and her long hair in a curly, up-style. She was in cheerful conversation with Neville Longbottom.

As if sensing her eyes on him, Harry glanced up at her. His glasses slipped down his nose a little and he righted this with the index finger that had previously been manhandling his canapé. Harry looked endearingly handsome in dark formal robes with a quiet, white cravat at the neck.

He waved the canapé (which was now just a plain oatmeal biscuit) in a beckoning manner.

Nick was also watching this. "Looks like Potter would like a word with you. Go ahead, I'll catch up."

It was probably time to move from her spot anyway, thought Hermione. The ice sculpture was making her shiver.

Still no sign of Draco.

She couldn't have cared less, of course, Hermione reminded herself yet again. She was there to accompany Nick, who in turn was there out of deference to Pansy, who was the type of witch to attend the opening of an envelope.

It would not do to avoid anything Draco-related for the rest of her life. They were bound to cross paths soon, weren't they?

But it didn't look like it was going to be tonight.

Some of the tension that had been vibrating like a compressed spring at in her belly eased. She couldn't help feeling like she was about to find out the results of NEWTS that she'd forgotten to study for.

Forcing a serene smile on her face, Hermione crossed the ballroom, edging around other guests who were standing and talking in smaller groups and couples. Her long skirt swirled around her legs as she moved.

"Hi," Harry said.

"Hi," replied Hermione, a little impatiently. "What is it?"

His eyebrows rose at her unusual curtness. "Nice to see you too. I didn't realize that Winter fellow was also invited. Did you two come together?"

Harry was doing something he didn't do very often at all. He was being bitchy.

"Winter fellow?" Hermione repeated, annoyed. "Harry, you know I'm seeing him. I wish you'd be more agreeable about it."

"I can't help it, I'm not fond of Ministry purse holders. They've already reduced our budget four times this year. And you're not really seeing him, are you?"

"We've been going out for six months!"

"Pfft," Harry said, wrinkling his nose. That's nothing."

"Just because it took you six years to land Ginny," Hermione bristled.

"I'm not sure I approve of the word 'land'" Ginny opinioned after Neville had walked off to have a word with Professor Sprout. "By the way, that colour looks beautiful on you, Hermione. Is that dress from Madam Lacroix's place?"

"Sorry, Ginny. And yes, it's one of hers." To Harry Hermione hastily added, "I don't know why you don't like him. He can't help it about his job."

Harry was happy to elaborate. "He's a bit bookish. I'd prefer more of an outdoors type."

Hermione couldn't believe she was hearing this. "Well, good thing I'm dating him then, and not you."

Ginny spoke through a smile. "Shush you two, he's coming this way."

Nick arrived, as promised. "Hello, Harry, Ginny."

Ginny smiled back. "Hello Nicholas, how are you?"

"I'm very well, thank you. And you?"

"She's corking," Harry cut in. "Say Winter, would you do us a favour?"

"Us?" Hermione narrowed her eyes at Harry. There was no love lost between Harry and Nick ever since the most recent wave of enforced, Ministry budget cuts.

Nick paused, glanced at Hermione for a second and then said to Harry with the enthusiasm of one who has agreed to be the audience volunteer for a knife throwing demonstration, "Of course. What is it?"

"Paper clips."

Nick blinked. "Paper clips."

"Yeah," said Harry. "I'm putting in a requisition form for paper clips on Wednesday, but it's really urgent you see? We need them for important administrative purposes that can't wait. The thing is, my unit has exceeded our stationary allowance for the month already."

"Aurors have a stationary allowance?" Ginny muttered, to which Harry responded by hauling her to his side and putting his arm around her.

"You want me to allot you an advance on next month's allowance so your Aurors will have…paperclips?" Nick concluded dryly.

"Would you?" Harry beamed. "I mean, would you speak to your boss about it? I would be ever so grateful."

"Yes, I suppose-"

"That's good of you," Harry interjected once again. "Cawldash is right over there," Harry pointed to a portly, red-faced gentleman in a kilt, who had practically Accio'd a waiter for a top up.

"Harry, that was nasty of you," Ginny chastised, after Nick had gone to do Harry's bidding.

Harry grinned. "Was, wasn't it? Once Calwdash gets going, there's no escape unless someone else is foolish enough to wander within conversation distance."

Hermione was looking at Harry with mild disgust at his antics. "You could have just asked him to excuse us for a moment. He would have understood."

"Yes, but I like to be elaborate."

She rolled her eyes. "So you've got my full attention, Potter. Spit it out."

"I think it's about time you spoke to Malfoy."

Her hand found its way to her hip. "You do, do you?"

"This history between you two has become a major loose end that's just been left…well, hanging," Harry insisted. "If you're going to continue on this path, be it with Winter (there was a dramatic and resigned sigh at this point) or some other person, you need to make it known to Malfoy. For both your sakes."

"And even if I did want to bring some closure to the matter, Harry, he's not even bothered to show at his own party!"

Harry looked confused for a moment. "He's right over there."

Good lord. So he was.

Only Draco Malfoy could sneak up on her without trying. He was standing right by the ice sculpture. Hermione was suddenly very thankful that Harry had called her over earlier.

They stared at him, as were a number of other guests who had also just noticed Draco's presence in the ballroom. Beside the drinks table, Pansy Parkinson made a delighted noise at the guest of honour's low key entrance and swooped toward Draco like an excited, tropical bird. High pitched gabbing commenced.

Ginny touched her on the arm. "Hermione, say something."

He had a grown a little.

More to the point, he had grown a little, _everywhere_.

"Something," Hermione obliged. Her voice sounded paper thin.

Malfoy had never exactly been skinny. Lots of kids started life ala beanpole and filled out come puberty. Not so Draco. He had been quite small in stature when they had first started Hogwarts and it wasn't until third year that he started catching up with the other boys at school.

When she had last seen him, he'd been lean and lanky, a typical Seeker's-build. Now, he looked like he'd be able to handle Bludgers without much difficulty.

Her heart felt like it was doing backflips.

He looked completely different, but the same. He was still slim, but the lankiness was gone. Indeed, it looked like he filled out the simple, black formal robes he wore with little slack left over. The robes weren't tight, they was just beautifully tailored. Hermione wondered if Pansy had been the one to organize the outfit since Harry mentioned that Draco wasn't much of a fashion plate any more.

Her eyes trailed down to his feet and she was very nearly amused. His dress shoes had probably been black at one point, but the sun had bleached them. They were worn but she could tell, even from that distance, that they were terribly comfortable.

At present, Malfoy was in still in conversation with Pansy, Hermione only saw his profile. Pansy seemed to be doing most of the talking. At one point she actually reached up to rearrange a bit of fringe, this was only after she apparently checked and agreed with the cut and fit of Draco's robes.

There was a brief squawk when she spotted his choice of footwear. Amazingly, this new Draco put up with the fussing. No sulking, no swatting at Pansy's hand. He just looked bored and impatient.

Here she was trying to prevent her stomach from fleeing from her body and Draco Malfoy was _bored_.

And then he glanced up to the rest of the ballroom and Hermione was suddenly presented with an unobstructed view of his face. She saw the same strong, long, straight nose. The cheekbones were a more prominent due his face being thinner and more angular than she remembered. But yes, the rest of him had most definitely filled out. His shoulders were broader, his chest was thicker. The robes he wore fell down to his shoes so she couldn't make out what his lower half looked like and then wondered why the hell she cared.

There was still a whisper of boyishness about his face. She could still see it in the curve of his expressive mouth and knew that it would still lift ever so slightly upwards when he was amused or when he was feeling derisive.

Somewhat surprisingly, he looked less like Lucius now than Hermione had expected. There was less sneer and arrogance. He seemed still and contained. Very contained.

Seemingly satisfied, Pansy finally wandered off and Draco was left alone.

Oh dear. Hermione scanned the crowd, hoping, _praying_ that someone else would step forward to talk to him; to occupy him.

No one approached. It was his fault for being so God damned unapproachable. She challenged herself to keep looking, to act normally, convinced that he'd somehow _know_ it if she chose to look away the moment he spotted her.

It happened. Draco was looking right at her. It was like being mentally slammed up against a wall. That all-knowing, penetrating gaze all too easily obliterated her already eroded barrier against panic. The sounds of the ballroom faded into the distance until it was just this low, rumbling people-hum. Those fey, grey eyes regarded her with great intensity.

All the other emotions that she put so much time and energy into nurturing - anger, bitterness and pain – were momentarily pushed aside leaving nothing but stark and grim revelation.

Hermione realized that Draco Malfoy still had the ability to make her forget how to breathe.

"Here we go," she vaguely heard Ginny say.

He was walking straight toward her, Harry and Ginny. _I know that walk_, Hermione thought, unable to stop herself. She had trailed behind him enough times in their torrid two weeks together for that purposeful long-strided gait to be imprinted on her memory. Draco had never quite perfected the art of walking aimlessly. He was always very obviously walking _to_ something.

He was walking to her.

Or maybe not?

He went right past them. Close enough for Hermione to smell subtly spicy aftershave. He kept going until he disappeared around the canapés table.

"Um, ok…" Harry said, "that went well."

Stupid tears began to well up. They were not stupid and _irrational_ tears, though. It was completely rational for her to be upset, but she still felt foolish.

Hermione eyed the wall of French doors that opened onto the balcony and inner courtyard.

"Excuse me," she said to Harry and Ginny. "I'm going outside for some fresh air."

To their credit, neither Harry not Ginny asked any questions. Nor did they remind her that it was close to freezing outside. They too, seemed a little frazzled by the almost-encounter.

"Take your time," Ginny urged. "I'll tell Nick you're occupied."

**

Nicholas Winter was not a troll. Draco had been surreptitiously watching the man and decided it was best he resign himself to this fact.

But he _was_, effectively, an accountant. That at least counted for something in the I'm-going-to-dislike-you-for-the- pettiest-reasons-imaginable stakes.

From what he was able to surmise from those who knew him, Winter, who looked to be in his mid thirties, was well-educated, well-mannered, well-dressed, amiable and did not have any crazy, homicidal relatives that anyone knew about.

And really, what poor excuse for a wizard didn't have at least one family oddity lurking about in his family tree?

Nick Winter also happened to be Muggleborn. Yet another thing he and Granger had in common. He had the kind of face that…

Correction, he had a _kind_ face. Here was a man who did not know cruelty to ever be able to inflict it.

He wasn't as tall as Draco, which was another something.

All this did nothing to lessen Draco's savage mood that evening. Pansy had some nerve to invite the git. She had gone to great and annoying lengths to explain to Draco that Hermione would not accept her own invitation unless it was _on Nick Winter's fucking arm._

Draco had been doing a good job of lurking in the foyer until avoiding his own party no longer became an option. So he walked in and found a somewhat secluded spot beside the hideous dragon ice sculpture Pansy had flown in from Romania for the occasion.

Pansy spotted Draco and hurried over to speak to him. He heard 'I can't believe you're late' and 'where did you get those horrid shoes from' before he tuned out.

It was hard to pay attention. His mind was on Winter and Granger.

_Together_. At his bloody party! Potter was speaking to the man. Then Winter walked off, leaving Hermione to her own devices. She was probably going to notice him soon enough.

He felt his heart rate pick up.

'Ideal' was what your mind told you it was. She was it, as far as he was concerned. After so long, his imagination had painted some fanciful pictures of Hermione Granger. It said something that reality more than exceeded his expectations.

Hermione's quiet allure called to him as it had before. The dark red dress she was wearing turned her complexion into pure cream. The candlelight helped too. Her short hair begged to be touched. It looked just about the right length for him to slide his hand into and take hold. She was still so small, fragile even, but he knew there was steel under that delicate exterior. He had tested it for himself.

God, he could feel a scene coming on. Pansy had wandered off, thank Merlin.

It was best to leave, he decided.

If you cared for someone enough, you'd do anything you could to ensure their happiness. You might avoid them. You might even walk out of a ballroom to do yet more lurking in the shadows of your own ballroom balcony and punch a hapless, innocent pillar.

Better than punching a hapless, innocent wizard, Draco figured.

Beating Winter up was out of the question, of course. Hermione wasn't going to forgive him as it was. Pansy had also pointed out the fact that Winter wasn't the first man to find favour with Hermione since Draco's disappearance. If he knocked out Winter, fairness dictated that he'd probably have to go and find every other speck that Hermione had sat across a restaurant table from over the past five years and punch their teeth out too.

"She's a woman, Draco. We have needs," Pansy had said to him earlier in the day.

Hell, he had had needs too. More basic ones, like the many times he hadn't been able to find any clean drinking water for days on end. Or the time he had a twelve inch gash in his side and had to fashion a needle and thread from a bit of bone and some horse sinew.

It wasn't that he hadn't considered the possibility of Hermione being attached. He'd have been a fool not to. Rather, he had convinced himself that she'd see the light of reason, nay, undeniable, glaring rightness - yes, that was it - and go where she belonged. Hermione belonged with him.

Damn it. Now he _really_ wanted to smash Winter in the face.

The object of his affection chose that precise moment to leave the ballroom from the same exit he had snuck out of moments earlier and step outside onto the balcony.

No, this was too soon. He was still trying to bring his jealousy and rage under control. It would not do to scare her.

Draco kept to the shadows. It said a lot that this was probably where he felt safest.

Hermione was rubbing her upper arms as she stared out at the moonlit courtyard garden. Everything was black and silver. The moon was milky and enormous, though not nearly as large as it often got in the East.

She cast a baleful stare at the moon, her warm breath a misty cloud in the frigid air. "And what are you looking at?" she muttered, a little accusingly.

Draco smiled in the darkness. He couldn't help himself. "The same thing I am. I like your hair short, it suits you."

Hermione startled and turned around. The panic in her eyes stung him. But she went from frightened to furious almost instantly. Yes, this was _his_ Hermione, a creature of infinite logic wrapped up in layers of feeling.

"You," she said, managing to make this simple pronoun sound like a curse word. "What are you doing here?"

"I live here now, remember?"

He thought her face went just a little red. "Yes, well I thought I was alone," she sniffed.

"I know that feeling," he said, quietly.

She was already walking away. Her long dress swirled prettily around her legs. "I have nothing to say to you."

Draco remained where he was, though it took considerable effort. He preferred when things went his way and if they didn't, he tended to use force.

"Then don't say anything, let me do the talking."

That stopped her. With her fists tightly clenched at her side, she sucked in what appeared to be a fortifying breath, fists clenched at her sides. The corset she wore was already doing rather nice things to her chest, but the deep breathing certainly helped.

She turned around slowly. "On second thought, I think I do want to hear this. Explain to me why I should just forget about the past. That's what you're after isn't it? And then I welcome you back with open arms? I think that's what you were hoping for? Harry said as much. "

Draco decided that the truth would suffice, to begin with, anyway. "You belong with me."

She blinked twice, very quickly. He could see her slapping hand was starting to twitch too.

"After five years…thinking you were dead or dying or _worse_ and with no way to reach you after those pathetic three postcards you sent me. After all the agony you put me through, _that_ is all you have to say to me? _That_?!"

"That night in Knockturn Alley… I told you there was no turning back. Fida Mia started something but we bloody well took it to a whole new level and then we fucking sealed it. Granger. I'm not going to join you in pretending that what we had was some sort of stupid fling, you felt what I felt. Give this time. Please."

"Evidently you didn't feel it as strongly as I did," Hermione replied, in low, clear tones. She jabbed a finger over her heart. "I'm the heartbroken one, remember! I didn't do the leaving, you did. Don't you speak to me about time!"

He nodded. "Yes, I know. I'll get to that in a minute. Right now please consider that you can't realistically stay angry at me forever. Now that I'm back, we can't stay apart forever either. You know it will eat at us. It is already."

She snorted. "Like hell it will. I rather _realistically_ got over you, Malfoy! I moved on with my life. It's not my fault you haven't!"

He took a silent step toward her. "I don't doubt that you did move on. Your resilience is astounding. It's one of the many things I love about you, Granger. But you're lying to yourself if you think you've got over me."

Hermione couldn't believe what she was hearing. Did he really have the audacity to think that he was actually being reasonable? If his easy, effortless admission of love nearly undid her, his massive, undented ego just about did the trick. Hermione recognized she was in serious danger of going to pieces right in front of him. She despised him all over again for it. This was not supposed to be happening. It had taken her so very long to steel her heart.

She turned away from him in an effort to regain some composure. He apparently mistook this for indifference.

"Alright," he said, and she was oddly pleased to hear the tremor in his voice. "Let me put a scenario before you. Put yourself in my shoes five years ago. Imagine you're in love with me."

Hermione opened her mouth to retort, but he stopped her. "Wait, just hear me out. You fall in love unexpectedly. Something you didn't expect you were even capable of. You despise the world and all the people in it and you trust no one, least of all your own family, whom you think has betrayed and abandoned you. But this new love…it's…" Draco paused, searching for a word, "it's _remarkable_. It's a whirlwind, passionate, fragile, completely illogical, as badly timed as you can get, but it's also true. Head over heels, up to your eyebrows true. Then something happens and it's because of you, directly and indirectly. Something terrible happens, and that someone dies. Badly."

"Only I didn't die. You saved me, remember?" she reminded him, in a whisper.

Draco's eyes were searing, colourless crystal in the moonlight. "_Barely_, Granger. I saved you just barely. You drowned in my arms. I felt the life go out of you. You have no idea what that did to me. You died because of me."

"But you promised you wouldn't leave without telling me!"

She realized she was shouting. Hurt and fear was pouring out of her and with it came an almost intoxicating relief she hadn't expected. She was incapable of stopping it. She didn't want to stop it.

Goodness, when exactly did he get that close to her? They were standing barely a breath apart. His frowning, intense face hovered over her. Ginny's home haircut had grown out a little. His fringe was long enough to keep out of his eyes. The hair at the back was still short and choppy though. There was a thin, white scar across his left cheekbone. And another along his jaw on the same side. Her mind reeled off at least a dozen more, new details about him, small little revelations that transfixed her.

"You knew it was a promise I couldn't keep when you asked me," he hissed.

Some small part of her brain was also registering the fact that Draco Malfoy was probably ten times scarier than he was before. But anger often made you braver, even if it tended to be foolish bravery.

"Oh, so now your five year absence is my fault, is it?"

"I did what I had to do to enable me to come back to you. I couldn't have stayed before. It simply wouldn't have worked."

"You don't know that!" she said to him, letting the full measure of hurt back into her voice. "We could have been happy."

He shook his head, emphatic. Hair fell over his eyes and he impatiently pushed it back with his fingers. "No, we wouldn't have been. I couldn't have been with you the way I can now."

Honestly, she could have just stared at him. She could have sat there and soaked up the sight of him alive and well. That summed up the depth of her feelings for him. The relief to know he'd survived whatever he'd put himself through was making a rather belated arrival. It was like getting punched in the stomach.

Oh no. She was really was going to cry now. At this point, her hand, as it had on so many other occasions in the past, decided to mutiny. It reached up and laid her palm against his cheek. He flinched as if she'd branded him.

His breathing became staggered. Apparently satisfied with whatever it was that she'd discovered, her hand returned once more to her side.

Her mouth, on the other hand, was still firmly in league with her brain. Maturity gave a sharper edge to her tone.

"So that's what you have to say to me, then? That was it? Are we done now, Draco?"

His eyes had turned shiny. After what seemed like an eternity, he turned away and swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand.

"Yes, I guess we're done."

Five years ago, she would have given her right arm to have him look at her with such raw, unguarded emotion as he had done just now, but time had hardened her. She felt triumph and a small amount of justice in the knowledge that there probably wasn't another person on the planet at the moment who could hurt Draco Malfoy as much as she was hurting him now.

And rightly so. There was power in this knowledge. It helped to ease her own hurt.

There was nothing more to say. By now, Nick would be wondering where she was. Hermione turned and started walking back towards the ballroom, towards the party with its smiling, people.

The distance between then increased with every step she took. She knew that he remained where he was, watching her leave. He didn't come after her. There were no angry footsteps. He didn't grab her arm to spin her around so he could sneer at her and call her a dirty rotten liar. He didn't kiss her to manipulate her or to punish and scare her.

He was doing exactly as she had asked. He was leaving her alone.

And what was the result of her outburst? She had imagined their inevitable encounter hundreds of times over the past eight weeks.

Funny, she thought she would be able to get some closure. But the pain just kept on burning.

She was reaching out a hand to the open the French doors to enter the ballroom when it happened.

There was a whoosh of displaced air and then an invisible force pushed her backwards, the heels of her booted feet scraping along the floor. Someone was casting a powerful barrier spell from inside the ballroom, sealing it off.

When the spell connected with the French doors, the force of it blew out the glass. There was a static charge zinging through the air.

She hit the ground, her hands instinctively covering her head when the shower of glass rained over her. Her ears were ringing. She tried to stand up, but then realized that someone was partially covering her. She didn't need to actually look to know that it was Draco. His hands were over her head. Hermione scrambled for her wand.

The shower of glass was over but now dust was pluming upwards. She started coughing. It was impossible to see anything. Her knees hurt where they were scraping against the debris on the floor.

"Are you alright?" Draco asked her. Her ears were still recovering apparently because his voice sounded muffled.

"Yes," she gasped. "What happened?"

"We're under attack," he replied, and then pulled her swiftly to her feet.

All enmity between them was swiftly put aside. Why did it always seem to take death, danger and tragedy to bring them together, however tentatively, Hermione lamented.

Still keeping low to the ground, they sprinted together down the balcony steps, past the bare rosebushes and towards the wooded area at the back of the estate. The candlelight of the ballroom had been snuffed out.

There was nothing but darkness and shouting behind them


	55. Chapter 55

**Chapter Fifty-Five**

"I can't believe this…" Hermione said, mostly to herself.

She was out of breath, and also freezing, having not had the common sense to take her coat with her out onto the balcony. In all fairness, she hadn't expected to be taking an impromptu jog through the woods in the middle of winter.

Well, at least her feet were warm, thanks to her boots.

Draco seemed to know where he was going, which was good because Hermione felt like she was blundering along without the faintest idea what was under her feet. He did not drag her with him, as had been his wont once upon a time, but left it to her to keep up.

On several occasions, Hermione had to grab hold of the back his robes to do so.

The trees were thin on the ground now. There were on a garden path that she could only just make it out. They turned a corner and suddenly, out of the darkness, something small and furry collided with Draco.

"Ooof!" said a distinctly feminine voice.

This was followed by a hex that Hermione barely dodged. It glanced off the tree behind her before hitting a flagstone with a mild 'chink'.

"Dodders?" she heard Draco say. "Put your wand down before you hurt someone."

It was Tandish Dodders, the Slytherin student formerly known as 'Tadpole'. Sprawled on the ground beside him was a very pretty young witch with long, straight, dark hair. She was suitably bundled up in thick wool and fur.

Hermione didn't immediately recognize her, though she seemed terribly familiar.

"Malfoy, is that really you?" said the startled witch, in a soft, husky voice.

_Carmen Meliflua_, Hermione's brain supplied, the little fourth year who used to follow Draco around school. She wasn't so little now, though.

Draco hauled Carmen to her feet. "What are you two doing out here?"

"Talking," Dodders replied.

"Arguing," Carmen clarified, swatting dead leaves off her expensive coat. Hermione didn't want to think about how many little animals had perished to make it. "We're three-quarters of the way engaged. Tandish was working on the last quarter, if you really need to know."

"I don't," Draco snapped. "Did you see anything?"

"Well we heard that noise from the house and were on our way back to help," said Dodders.

"By 'help' he means hide in the bushes and wait for the danger to pass," muttered Carmen.

"Are they after Potter?" Dodders asked.

"Aren't they always?" Draco replied dryly.

Hermione cupped her hands together and blew into them. Funny, to think that after more than a decade of Voldemort wanting to end Harry, a new attempt never failed to leave her shaken to the core. One would think she'd be resigned to it by now. Harry certainly was.

Carmen was casting fretful glances in the direction of the manor. "How on earth did they get in? Don't these old houses have near-unbreakable wards?"

"They're supposed to," Draco replied, grimly. "I'm not sure what sort of wards Pansy's been using at the moment."

"Still, to attempt such an attack…" pondered Dodders. "A third of the people in there work for Ministry law enforcement."

Draco was undoing the hidden fastenings that held his outer robes together. "All the better to keep them contained during an attempt to snatch Potter, don't you think? Put this on," he instructed Hermione.

The garment slid off his shoulder with a soft swish. He was wearing a fitted black jumper underneath. Hermione wanted to decline for the sake of it alone, but there were more important things to worry about presently.

And besides, her fingers were probably starting to turn blue. It swam on her, but the light wool still held the warmth from his body. It did something to her focus, to be surrounded by his scent, all over and all at once. With a shudder, she managed to shake off the overwhelming feeling.

"Pay attention, this is what we're going to do," Draco said. He waited until the younger couple ceased their fretting and were looking directly at him. "The two of you are going to Disapparate to the Ministry to tell them what's happening here," he explained slowly.

"What about her?" Dodders inclined his head toward Hermione. "She's not coming with us?"

"_Miss Granger_ is going to insist on staying so I'm not going to bother asking her to go with you."

Hermione was glad not to have to argue with him. "When you meet the Nightguard, ask for Rufus Scrimgeour. Arthur Weasley won't be there at this hour and it will take too long to go through the channels to speak to him directly, but Scrimgeour is on call tonight."

Dodder's eyes were saucers as he took tight hold of Carmen's hand. "Scrimgeour. Got it." He looked extremely relieved to be asked to leave with Carmen, but then turned concerned again. "Wait, what are you going to do?"

He might as well have asked Draco what he was planning for the weekend, such was Draco's apparently lack of concern.

"What do you think? I'm going to kick these fucking gatecrashes out of my house."

**

Eighteen. No, make that twenty.

Twenty black-robed, masked, Death Eaters standing sentry around some two hundred disarmed guests and waiters. Twenty was going to be a challenge. Draco estimated that he would have been able to stun nine or ten in a row before he was discovered. That left too many for Hermione to deal with alone.

The fact that all two hundred captives were acting so compliant was probably due to the fact that Potter wasn't there. They would have taken him hostage in another room as soon as the attack commenced. It said something about Harry's value to the Wizarding community that a ballroom consisting mostly of former Slytherins were concerned enough for his safety not to attempt to fight their captors.

That was either very good news or very bad news for Harry.

Hermione forced herself to calm down. Thank God Ron wasn't at the party. That meant one less person for her to worry about.

Draco and Hermione were up in the ceiling, having snuck back into the house through a library window. There was a trapdoor into the roof in the second drawing room. They crawled through narrow, cobweb drenched passages for several minutes before finally arriving at what Hermione assumed were the rafters above the ballroom.

The beams creaked a little and once or twice Draco turned around to warn her to be extra careful. Thank goodness for the fabric covering the ceiling. It effectively kept them hidden from view. Draco belly-crawled out over the middle of the ballroom and gingerly slit a hole through the fabric with his wand.

"Is everyone alright?" Hermione asked urgently.

He peered downwards. "Yes, though I think Longbottom's got a splinter or something because he's bitching up a storm..."

He assessed the situation for a minute or so longer and then shuffled back to her. There was hardly enough room to crouch in the corner of the ceiling. They were nose to nose by the time he reached her.

"Well, what do you think?" she asked with a frown.

He hesitated for the briefest moment. "This was well planned."

"How can you tell?"

For starters, from a completely superficial standpoint the Deatheaters were dressed for the part. Draco hadn't seen that much detail paid to costume and regalia since the 1994 Quidditch World Cup. It was enough to make a Dark Lord teary-eyed with pride. The dry cleaning bill alone would have been staggering. Their masks were positively gleaming from polish.

In addition, there wasn't a fat or stodgy figure among them either, which tended to imply that this was the new and improved, younger, Death Eater brigade that Voldemort and Bellatrix had put so much effort into grooming over the last few years.

Minus the Hogwarts addition of Blaise Zabini, of course, Draco reminded himself.

None of the Death Eaters in the ballroom were entertaining questions from the captives. They were still and silent with their wands at the ready, unless someone dared to step forward to challenge them.

Draco winced when Ginny Weasley was thus shoved to the floor for demanding to see Potter yet again.

"I can just tell," was all Draco said.

Hermione's hands were wringing at her skirt. She thought for a moment. "Do you have anything in the house we can use?"

The question got him frustrated. "Ask me eight years ago and the answer would be God yes. Right now I have no idea what Pansy's keeping on site."

Fluffy, stuffed elephants were only offensive to a select few, unfortunately.

However there _was_ someone in the house whom Draco was certain would likely have a small dark arsenal hidden under his bed. That was, if he hadn't already been captured.

The trick was to get to the other side of the house without being noticed. They left the ballroom and climbed down from the ceiling once they were back in the second drawing room.

"Where are we going?" Hermione asked, as Draco silently levitated the trapdoor close.

"The kitchen."

They were going to find 'Boris'.

**

Nearly all of the lamplight and candlelight along the corridors had been snuffed out. This likely meant that additional Death Eaters had been assigned to patrol the hallways to guard the perimeter and round up any straggling guests.

They were still able to move quietly and quickly, Draco having intimate knowledge of the layout of his home. He was also able to enlist the help of family portraits.

There was a large painting of his great-grandfather in the southern wing which only proved to be helpful when questioned in French. Hermione cast a subtle Lumos.

It was portrait of Aramis Malfoy in his late eighties, showing a virile-looking, silver-haired gentleman seated astride a white charger, family standard blazing in the wind. He was holding a flaming sword, which occasionally would set light to the banner and had to be put out by an annoyed Aramis.

It was a colourful picture, though the better description was probably garish.

"Pépé, tu n'as vu personne passer par ici ce soir?" Draco hurriedly asked.

Aramis busy eyeballing Hermione from head to toe, stopping for good measure at her chest. She folded her arms and gave the old man a withering look.

"Ah, ça fait plaisir de te voir avec une demoiselle, mon garçon. J'avais peur que tu ne deviennes comme ton père. Tu te prépares pour ton rendez-vous galant, à ce que je vois. Bravo Draco!"

Hermione's French was admittedly patchy, but she understood enough to bite her lip and stare at the carpet.

Draco was a study in Patience. "Avez-vous vu des hommes masqués passer par ce hall? C'est très _important_."

Aramis looked intrigued now. "Tout à fait! Un gars avec un masque est passé plus tôt. L'avait l'air pressé. J'ai pensé que c'était bizarre, but bon, la fille qui s'occupe du lieu a de drôles de tendances."

"Thank you," Draco said, finally.

Hermione tugged on his sleeve. "I missed that last part, did he see anyone or not?"

"Yes. So be on guard."

They continued further, stopping next at Pansy's room. Draco decided it would be worthwhile checking if she kept anything in there they could use.

His hand was nearly on the door handle when a Death Eater appeared between them. The subtle mist of Apparition clouded Hermione's vision momentarily.

There was a flash of bright green light and Hermione instantly feared the worse. Her wand was wrenched violently from her grasp. It clattered to the floor and then there was complete darkness because her Lumos had been the only bit of light in the long, narrow corridor.

"Run!" Draco called out and she could have swooned with relief to hear his voice.

Of course, he was an idiot to think she was going to obey him. Grasping wildly around the floor with her hands, she located her wand within seconds.

"Lumos!"

There was a full-fledged duel going on the likes of which she hadn't seen since Harry's mission to the Ministry in their fifth year.

"Stay where you are!" Draco ordered her.

Hermione could only plaster herself against the wall and do her best to avoid getting hit. This was no school dueling club. These were not friendly, practicing spells. They were meant to maim if not kill. She knew that Harry and Ron did face situations where spell casting meant actually trying to kill your enemy, but seeing it demonstrated at such close contact still made her stomach flip over.

And then the unknown Death Eater cast a spell Hermione hadn't even heard of. Suddenly, she lost all sense of space and balance. Up was down and down was up. She clung to the wall, feeling like the corridor had become a spinning tube.

Draco was unaffected. He was blocking the effect. Hermione could see the force of the spell being bent away from him by an invisible field from his wand. He then threw a hex that caught the Death Eater in his midsection.

The man flew backwards, slamming against a wall. He began coughing. The horrible vertigo ended, just in time too because Hermione had been about to lose the contents of her stomach.

Draco walked over to him, not in any particular hurry. He bent down to pick up the man's wand and then snapped it in half with a dramatic sigh.

"I wonder who would be stupid enough to use one of my own spells against me? Let me guess..." He flicked the cloaked man's mask off with his wand.

"Hello Dominic," Draco said, conversationally. He hauled the man up. "It's been a while. What are you doing here tonight?"

The Death Eater spat out a mouthful of blood. "The Dark Lord is enraged, Malfoy. We will take all that you hold dear." He spoke with a strong Russian accent. Hermione wondered if he was a successful Durmstrang recruit.

"So you're starting with Harry Potter? I hate to break it to you, Dominic, but I have socks I hold dearer than that speccy git."

The Death Eater said nothing to this.

Draco smirked. "You had no idea he would be here tonight did you? At _my_ party. God, how amusing. Did you wet your pants when you spotted him in the ballroom?"

"You can kill me, but you are still outnumbered. You can't save all your friends, Malfoy."

Now _this_ was dedication. Death Eaters in the past always left room to bargain when faced with the possibility of capture or death. This new lot was martyr-ish.

Draco detested zealots.

"Good, so I have your permission to kill you." He turned to Hermione for effect. "You heard him, Granger, he said I could kill him."

The man apparently wasn't going to go without a fight. He pulled a knife out of his cloak. The expression on Hermione's face was all the warning Draco needed. He kicked Dominic's wrist.

The knife clanged to the floor and the desperate Death Eater made a dive for it.

Draco took a step back, holding out his wand. His purpose was clear, no matter that the man's back was turned.

Hermione darted out in front of him, effectively putting herself between Draco and the Death Eater. He hadn't had time to check his expression before he looked at her. Thus was she confronted with a look of purposeful, murderous intent.

For a few seconds, Hermione couldn't find her voice. Draco was scaring her.

"_Do not stand in front of me when I have my wand out_," he whispered.

He might as well have roared at her. His tone was like being slapped in the face. He was very, very angry at having his actions questioned.

She tried to reason with him. "You can't kill this man in cold blood!"

Draco's eyes bore into her. "Look away or get out of the way," he said, very calmly.

Dominic was aware that his life was hanging in the balance. He looked like he might have made a wild grab for Hermione when Draco lowered his wand to take new aim at him.

"Die or die badly," he hissed and Dominic shrank away.

Hermione stood her ground. "Just Stun him!"

Draco was menacing when he next spoke. He didn't have to move an inch to make her feel like she was virtually being pinned to the wall with his gaze.

"You do realise he would have killed us without hesitation. And you can bet he's done worse. Damn it, Hermione! We're lucky that first AK missed! We do not know how many others there are wandering these halls. To Stun him and leave him is to risk one of his friends finding him, at which point he will be able to tell them who we are and how many we are. Right now you are wasting my time and risking Potter's life all the more."

Wasting _his_ time, she noted. Not their time. Not hers. She was the soft one who spared lives, he was reminding her. He was the one who got the job done. This was not the boy who had been shaking so much after inadvertently killing a Death Eater five years ago that he had trouble holding on to a wand.

They ended up binding Dominic and stuffing him in a broom closet. If the man was thankful at being spared, he didn't show it.

"Do not second guess me again," Draco said, when it was done.

She refused to be intimidated. "Precaution is not a good enough reason for murder, Draco."

He turned so quickly to face her that she ran into his chest.

"So you think I'm a cold-blooded killer now, do you? You must have read the Inquiry's report then?" he sneered.

Her bad opinion seriously bothered him, she discovered. There was that tiny little thrill of power again, but this thrill was overwhelmed by the need to reassure him. She had never been very good at being deliberately cruel.

"No, I haven't read the report," she said, unable to meet his eyes.

Her emotions were getting the better of her. A horrible and obviously incorrect assumption must have entered his head because he looked tremendously hurt all of a sudden. His voice started to waiver.

"You think it was a five-year holiday, don't you?" he said, narrowing his stunning eyes at her. "You think that's where I've been; wallowing in self-pity in the fucking tropics, riding camels in the desert, playing Rogue Auror on particularly boring days. How lucky I was to run into a very repentant Bellatrix Lestrange. What fun I had on my little sabbatical. And bugger me, _how I miss my fucking tan_."

"Stop it! I know it was hell! Harry told me enough." A tear escaped. "I'm sorry you suffered," she added in a whisper. "I'm sorry I haven't read the report yet. I don't know why I haven't…"

That was a lie. She knew why she didn't want to read it. Reading it was to risk her compassionate side rationalizing why he had done what he did.

He looked like he wanted to grab her and shake her. Hermione resisted the urge to take a step backwards. She couldn't recall ever seeing Draco quite this angry with her.

But then he shook his head, walked away, stopped, turned around and came back again.

"Granger," he began, "you think just because I'm in love with you and because I'm so very sorry for hurting you that there's a switch you can flip to turn me into a normal man? I mean, why bother? You're not even taking me back."

"I…" she started.

"Stop crying," he snapped, though not entirely unkindly. Now he just looked weary. He stared down at his hands. "Don't cry if you don't plan on regretting your actions." He resumed waking. "We should continue."

_Yes_, she silently agreed, although she wished she was saying yes to more than just the rescue mission.

**

**Chapter End Notes:**

French - English translation – needs to be tweaked.

"Pépé, tu n'as vu personne passer par ici ce soir?" grandad, did you see anyone pass by here tonight?

"Ah, ça fait plaisir de te voir avec une demoiselle, mon garçon. J'avais peur que tu ne deviennes comme ton père. Tu te prépares pour ton rendez-vous galant, à ce que je vois. Bravo Draco!" ah its great to see that youre with a woman draco, i was afraid that you would turn out like your father. youre getting ready for a proper rendez-vous, bravo.

"Avez-vous vu des hommes masqués passer par ce hall? C'est très _important_." have you seen masked men pass by this hall? its really important for me to know.

"Tout à fait! Un gars avec un masque est passé plus tôt. L'avait l'air pressé. J'ai pensé que c'était bizarre, but bon, la fille qui s'occupe du lieu a de drôles de tendances." yes actually, there was a masked man that had passed by not too long ago, he seemed hurried, I found it a bit weird, but what with the girl being here and all, dismissed the thought, thinking it was due to her.


	56. Chapter 56

**Chapter Fifty-Six**

It took them fifteen minutes to make their way to the kitchens and adjacent servants' quarters. This was due to the Death Eater that was standing at the bottom of the service stairs.

Hermione's long distance Petrificus did the trick, after which they hid the man in the wine cellar. Draco didn't complain much about this because his mood was improved after finding a bottle of prized merlot that looked like it had been abandoned shortly after opening.

"Bastards," he muttered. He uncorked it, took a long, healthy swig, closed his eyes briefly and savoured the taste.

Hermione shot him and incredulous look, to which he innocently responded with, "Would you like some?"

She declined.

With wine bottle now in tow, they climbed back up the stairs behind the pantry.

"Tell me again why we're in the kitchen?" Hermione asked.

Draco held a finger to his lips and silently walked over to the little, adjoining room where candlelight could be seen through the crack under the door. Hermione assumed the room was where the Manor's house elf lived.

He knocked. There was no answer.

"Boris, if you're there, your assistance is required in the ballroom," Draco called out.

There was a short pause. "Malfoy, is that you?"

"No, it's Lord Voldemort," snapped Draco." Why is everyone asking me that tonight?"

That seemed to convince whoever it was. The spells came off the door and then the manual locks were undone, one by one. It creaked open. A short, small, dark-haired man was standing beside a single bed, his wand in hand. Hermione recognized him as the servant who had taken her and Nick's coats at the start of the evening.

Beside him was Toolip the house elf, holding a candlestick high above her head.

"Miss!" Toolip cried out. "Is good to see you again!"

"Good to see you too, Toolip," Hermione smiled, "despite the circumstances."

Boris was looking at them with surprise. "We assumed you'd be with the others in the ballroom."

"We got lucky," replied Draco. He passed the wine to Boris, who uncorked it without a word and took a swallow.

Boris glanced down at the faded label. "Nice. Though you might have waited another year or two."

Draco looked affronted. "_They_ opened it."

"Bastards," Boris spat.

Hermione looked from one man to the other. "You two know each other well?"

Boris opened his mouth to reply, but Draco cut in. "His family used to work for the Malfoys, once upon a time," he smoothly supplied.

He was lying, but Hermione didn't press the matter. "If you're finished drinking, can we get down to the business of rescuing everyone in the ballroom?" Hermione reminded, her voice rising a little. "We don't even know where Harry is, for God's sake."

"Potter? They're poking a stick at him in Lucius' study," Boris informed.

Hermione turned concerned eyes to Draco. "We have to go and get him _now_."

"And risk alerting the twenty Death Eaters in the ballroom? I don't think so. We'll have to attempt both assaults at the same time."

"But they could kill him!"

Boris quickly shook his head. "Potter is only in danger if they take him out of the Manor. They won't harm him yet." He seemed very sure of this. "Minions know never to harm their prize. Only Voldemort gets to do that."

Hermione stared at him beadily. "How do you know this? What, is there some sort of Evil Minion handbook or something?"

Boris suddenly looked terribly uncomfortable. Draco cleared his throat. "He's right."

"Dodders and Carmen would have got through to Scrimgeour by now. Why not wait for backup to come before we try anything?"

"That would risk them moving Potter as soon as they realize the Manor is under attack. There's a working fireplace in my father's study they might use."

"We're equipped to do this," Boris assured her. "And now we have more manpower than just me and Toolip."

Draco didn't get too excited just yet. "Oh yes? What do you have?"

"Cross-bows, a few swords, daggers, razor rope, blasting stones, two Bottomless-Pits-In-A-Jar and poisons, but one or two might have gone off by now…"

Boris politely ignored Hermione, who was looking at the servant rather incredulously.

Draco catalogued these items in his head. "What else?"

"There's also half a barrel of Quiesco Dust."

The corner of Draco's mouth lifted. "Now that, my dear Boris, is a plan."

**

"Is half a barrel enough to knock out an entire hall of people?" Hermione asked.

Walking in pitch black darkness was tricky. They were not going to risk using even a muted Lumos after being discovered by Dominic. She was feeling her way along the corridor by touching the walls on either side.

They were heading back to the second drawing room in the opposite wing. Draco was carrying a tightly sealed sack of Sleeping Powder over his shoulder. He also had one of the two Bottomless Pits in his pocket. Boris had the other one.

"Probably not, but it'll make them drowsy enough to disarm easily. How are you with a Whirlwind Charm? If we can keep the dust circulating it might buy us more time."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "How do you think I am with a Whirlwind Charm?"

That answered his question. "Good. Slow down, we're coming to the second floor landing. My father's study is just below us."

They listened, and true enough, they were able to make out muffled voices.

"What about the guards watching Harry?"

"Don't worry about Potter. Boris and Toolip will manage."

She wished she could be as confident as him. Hermione tip-toed out onto the landing, eager to listen to what was happening below. She hoped to God Harry was fine.

"Granger, come back here!"

The voices were louder now. Hermione could make out two different voices, both male. And then she heard Harry, loud and defiant. He was most definitely unharmed for the time being. She breathed a sigh of relief.

The steps had to be somewhere in front of her. She remembered the staircase very well from her first visit to Malfoy Manor. Draco had nearly kissed at on the last step, outside his father's study. One could hardly forget _that_ particular encounter.

"Where are you?" she heard Draco ask, in a harsh whisper.

"On the stairs," she whispered back.

He really should hurry up. Still firmly holding the banister, she put her foot out.

"Granger, wait!"

But the next step wasn't there. It was supposed to be there! Her foot met nothing but air and her forward momentum meant that she was tipping forward into empty, black space. Her wand was within reach, but her first instinct was to reach out for something to grab a hold of and stop her fall.

She had the good sense not to scream. If she was stupid enough to fall to her death, at least let it be done in silence so as not to give away Draco's position.

But the fall never came and somehow, part of her knew he'd get to her in time. He would have had to leap across the landing to reach her, which was exactly what he did.

One hand caught her left wrist. Her right hand scrambled up his left arm, searching for purchase. Beneath her fingers she could feel his muscles turn rigid from the strain. It was his bad arm, she realized - the one that dislocated easily.

Her hand was sweaty. She was slipping.

"Hermione," he said, very quietly. And the supreme calmness in his voice penetrated her thick fog of panic. This was the new, improved Draco, she reminded herself, the action-adventure model that didn't second guess himself in dire situations.

"I've got you. Stop thrashing."

Hermione hadn't realized she had been and immediately went still. He found her other flailing hand and took firm hold of it.

"Where's your wand?" he asked. She could make out the strain in his voice now.

"In my dress," she gasped out. They were about a minute away from being discovered.

"Ok, that's alright," he said, though he sounded a little disappointed. "Now, I'm going to lift you a little. You need to use me to climb the rest of the way up yourself because if I lean forward anymore, we're both going to fall. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

She understood that the fall was probably going to end before either of them would have time to cast a spell to save themselves, either from the hard marble of the floor downstairs or the from the Death Eaters in Lucius' study.

Her right hand continued to slip through his grip and the pain in her arms was becoming excruciating.

Slowly, he lifted her up using his forearms. As soon she was able to, she took tight hold of his shoulders. Grabbing fistfuls of his jumper, she scrambled up and over him, aided by his hands at her waist.

Finally, they were back on the carpeted landing. He rolled them away from the ledge. Hermione was too relieved to do much else besides slump against him. His arm was still draped around her waist.

For what seemed like an eternity, they were just breathing.

And then, "I forget you're staircase-challenged."

He was of course referring to her near mishap on the steps leading to the Owlery, where they had carried out clandestine meeting years ago.

He was a complete arse to be amused at a time like this.

"I do not have difficulty with staircases! It's not my fault your stupid house has a landing that just leads into empty space."

She thought he might be trying not to laugh. "It's not usually empty space. This wing is restricted. The stairs were dismantled by your Ministry."

_It's your Ministry too_, she wanted to correct him. Why did he always insist on grouping himself in another category altogether?

He was still holding her. She tried to look up at him, her nose bumped up against his chin, which was smooth. He must have had a shave before the party.

He tilted his head downwards to make it easier for her.

To make what easier for what, her brain asked, but that question was mostly rhetorical. She knew exactly what was happening.

And then there was silence, because silence was what you got when two people in pitch black darkness decide to hold their collective breath.

She couldn't see anything in the dark, but she somehow knew that his lips had parted just so she could she fit hers between them. For a split second, there was just air, the intimate sharing of breath, and then there was exquisitely soft sensation.

He caught her lips as if he wasn't sure how to proceed. It was maddeningly whisper-soft. Since when was Draco Malfoy ever anything less than completely sure of himself?

Her head spun, the blood in her body seemed to be rushing directly to her face, making her lips even more sensitized.

He made a low noise, rendered incredibly arousing because he sounded so uncertain. She felt the tip of his tongue make a heated, wet slide along her lower lip to gently taste her. She felt the deep breath he drew in from her. Her mouth opened to deepen the kiss and allow him more access, but he retreated.

By the time she opened her eyes, the moment was well and truly over. He got to his feet and then helped her up. She couldn't see his face, but she could feel his scowl. Suddenly, she felt wretched over what had just transpired. Really, when Draco was concerned, she seemed to have no control over her own body.

"Winter is waiting for you in the ballroom," he said, and you could have chilled beer to that tone.

**

There were three Death Eaters standing guard outside Lucius' study. Goyle manage to take the first two by surprise with the aid of a well-aimed Bottomless Pit.

Despite its name, Bottomless Pits were not in fact, bottomless. It was just a rather long drop. Magic held the space in place until someone got you out. Or at least you could _hope_ someone would get you out

But by the time his hiding spot was discovered, the third one proved difficult. The blasting stones were in his pocket, but he was hesitant to hurl one before Draco and Hermione commenced their assault on the ballroom.

It would not do to alert the other Death Eaters before they had had a chance to dismantle the protective barrier around the ballroom.

He was just about to engage the Death Eater in wandfire, when Toolip hovered a large vase filled with fresh flowers over the man's head. She dropped it on him with a loud sigh.

"Miss Pansy liked that one," she lamented.

"Miss Pansy will understand, come on!"

When Goyle finally kicked the study door open, they found a perspiring and panting Harry holding a fireplace poker and two wands. His glasses were missing and there was a cut and darkening bruise on his forehead.

On the floor was an unconscious Death Eater, looking markedly worse than Harry.

Toolip peeked out from behind Goyle's leg.

"Hi," Goyle began, somewhat uncertainly. "I'm, um, Boris, Miss Parkinson's manservant."

Harry dropped the poker when he saw them. It fell to the carpeted floor with a dull thud. "Is everyone alright?" He limped forward with the staggered gait of someone who had recently been hit with a body binding curse.

Goyle knew the look in Harry's eyes. Hell, he was _feeling_ that look.

Pansy was as much a prisoner as Ginny Weasley. The look said that Harry's entire universe was liable to be shattered if Goyle delivered any news apart from what he said next.

"As far as I know, no one has been harmed."

Harry deflated with relief. And then he was occupied staring at the doorframe which was drunkenly hanging off its hinges. He goggled at Toolip, and then at Boris.

"That was some kick, mate," said an impressed Harry. "I think you need to come and work for us."

'Boris' went from adrenaline pumped to meek and unassuming in the space of a heartbeat. "I assure you, it was just a heat of the moment... thing," he said. "Can I take you to the ballroom now, Mr. Potter? Only there's a rescue attempt in progress there and maybe you'd like to help?"

**

The Quiesco Dust was doing what it was supposed to, though certain people responded better to its effect than others. The difficult part had been breaking the barrier that contained the ballroom without making too much noise or having the complex spells blow up in their faces.

Draco's attempts did not work. Somewhat ruefully, he handed the task over to Hermione. She was successful on her fourth attempt. With the barrier down, cold winter air was virtually sucked into the room through the broken windows.

Now alerted to the breach, the Death Eater team readied themselves at the entrance doors. They were undoubtedly surprised when the attack came from above.

Hermione focused on her Whirlwind Charm from her hiding spot in the ceiling over the ballroom. It was a large whirlwind for a large space and it was taking more concentration than she would have guessed to maintain the spell.

Neville Longbottom went down like a ton of bricks, which was unfortunate really because he was rather good at Stunning. Ginny, on the other hand, was almost unaffected by the Dust and with the aid of a groggy Nicholas, proceeded to knock out the nearest Death Eater with a silver serving tray.

Other guests joined the fray, though everyone seemed to be wobbly and moving in slow motion.

The whirlwind had done its work. Hermione ended the spell and the shower of purple dust rained to the floor.

Draco dropped into the room, landing silently in a crouched position. He was able to Stun twelve Death Eaters before they worked out what was happening. Hermione saw him only briefly; a black blur that disappeared into the more colourful, slow-moving crowd. He proceeded to pick of Death Eaters with the speed and precision of a military sniper.

To Hermione's relief, Harry and Boris arrived exactly as they had planned, coming through the entrance. The dust was beginning to lose its effect and accordingly, the spell casting in the ballroom was starting to intensify.

With Harry no longer a hostage, the odds were no longer in the Death Eaters' favour, especially when guests began to reclaim their wands.

It was a matter of numbers. Two hundred versus twenty wasn't much of a struggle.

From that point, the attack on Malfoy Manor was over in less than ten minutes.

**

Hermione stood beside Harry, leading him by his elbow as he limped. Ginny took over this duty as soon as she was through raining kisses over his face while he said, "ow."

Neville was still out cold, though someone had been thoughtful enough to shove a jacket under his head as a pillow. Professor Sprout was grinning and drinking champagne straight from the bottle with one of the waiters.

Boris and Pansy were showing the newly arrived Ministry reinforcements where the wine cellar was because that was where they were keeping the Death Eaters captives.

Still in a slight daze, Hermione remained where she was, smiling and nodding at anyone who approached her to ask if she was alright.

Nick came to her in the end. He scooped her up and held her tightly.

It'd been one hell of a night. About a dozen guests were in need of medical attention, but none of the injuries sustained were life-threatening.

Draco stood in the middle of the ballroom, the tip of his wand still glowing red from use. People laughed and hugged each other. They walked around him to get to other people. Toolip had already produced a dusting pan and was tut-tut ting at the shattered windows.

He assumed he walked out of the ballroom to speak to Rufus Scrimgeour completely unnoticed, but Hermione watched him leave over Nicholas's shoulder.


	57. Chapter 57

**Chapter Fifty-Seven**

Alastor Moody walked into the Ministry meeting room and narrowly avoided colliding into Rufus Scrimgeour, who happened to be on his way out.

There was a brief, tense moment at the doorway wherein both men took a stab at being civil, which was an improvement on taking a stab at _each other_.

Saying that they disliked each other was like saying Rubeus Hagrid was a bit on the large side.

"Pard'n me," growled Moody. Only he could make an apology sound like the exact opposite.

"Oh no, you first," Scrimgeour responded, sounding as if he was chewing on nails. He had been speaking with Draco and Harry to gather information for the report on the Manor's attack.

Neither moved. The ten young people seated around the oval conference desk in the meeting room watched with tired interest.

Draco leaned over towards Harry, who was seated next to him. "Are they always like this?"

Harry was tearing chunks off a pumpkin and almond-flake muffin. "Yeff."

A sleepy looking Ron intervened by kicking out a chair. "There you go, Mad-Eye."

Moody grabbed the chair and sat down with his wooden leg sticking out to the side. He waited until Scrimgeour had left, shutting the door behind him. Moody then opened his abundant, ubiquitous grey winter coat and pulled out a large bottle of warm, spicy, mulled wine. One could not have designed a better warm beverage for the current dismal weather.

There were words of appreciation from the team. Someone else produced mugs from a sideboard and blew the dust out of them.

"Right then," he addressed his team, "what the hell happened tonight? The summarized version consists of twenty-five Death Eaters captured at Malfoy Manor, currently being stripped down to their evil y-fronts in our interrogation rooms. Would you like to fill in the rest, boy?"

Ten pairs of eyes (one magical) turned expectantly to Draco, who belatedly realized Moody was referring to him. He was still wearing his dress robes from the party. They were largely immaculate except the knees of his trousers were dusty from crawling around in the ceiling.

"We're guessing revenge for taking Bellatrix," Harry cut in. There were nods of agreement. "It's common knowledge now that Draco was the one to pull it off. The news is all over the place."

Fellow Auror, Dean Smith, had a furrowed brow. "But if they wanted just Malfoy, why attack a house full of Slytherins?" He addressed Draco next. "It's overkill. If you don't mind me saying, you lot are known for being more sympathetic to Voldemort's cause."

Draco's reply was arctic cool. "Voldemort takes things personally. He knows how effective a message can be when he strikes close to home. _My_ home in this instance, now that I have reclaimed it."

Ron snorted. "He'd like to take _Harry_ personally, which is what very nearly happened. They must have shit their pants to find him there."

"Bit early in the morning for that sort of imagery," muttered team member Angie Johnson from the opposite end of the table.

"We haven't had a large scale attack like this in more than a year," Moody reminded them all. "The last one was the Wattersley Village Fete incident and that was only five of them. Worries me that Voldemort is getting this bold with his limited resources. He's down twenty-five Death Eaters right now and he can't afford to be down any."

"Bold or careless," added Seamus Finnegan. He was pouring out the steaming wine and passing mugs around the table.

"A bit of both, in this case," Draco said. "They were there for me, but they would have killed off anyone they thought was close to me."

Harry snorted into his mug. "Welcome to my life."

Moody agreed with Draco. "They had to be waiting for the right opportunity to get to you. It would have been next to impossible attacking you when you were under Potter's protection."

Draco gave Moody a sardonic smile. "Protection? Is that what it was? I thought I was being watched while you sorted out my story."

Moody shrugged. "Same thing."

"You'll have to watch your back now, Malfoy," said Ron to Draco, with officious seriousness.

"No, really," drawled Draco, just as seriously.

Moody was consulting his pocket watch. He stood up slowly, chair scraping against the floor. "Right then, interrogations are about to start downstairs. I need three more to assist."

Seamus, Dean and Ron were happy to volunteer. The rest of the Aurors left for their respective duties, leaving Draco and a thoughtful-looking Harry alone in the room. Harry yawned.

"Potter, can I ask you something?"

"Of course." Harry tilted his chair back and propped his feet up on the conference table. The bruise on his forehead looked worse in the bad office lighting. He took his glasses off, folded them, and then placed them on his chest.

"When you're in the field, do you shoot to kill?"

Harry was quiet for a moment. There was no natural light in the room, only weak lamplight. Draco's light-coloured hair looked more golden than silver. It had taken a while for him to lose the healthy tan he'd acquired from time spent in warmer climates, but if anything could wipe out a tan, it was a British winter. Draco's skin was as pale as it had been when they'd been at school.

They were all exhausted, but it showed more on Draco. He was sporting dark rings under his eyes.

"Are you after Auror protocol or do you want to know what I do, specifically? Harry asked.

"Shouldn't they be the same thing?"

"Not in reality. The answer is yes, I do shoot to kill when it's-"

"Necessary?" supplied Draco.

Harry looked at him. "I was going to say 'unavoidable'."

"Ah. Right."

Harry took his feet off the table and leaned in. "Why, did something happen at the Manor?"

At first it looked like Draco wasn't going to elaborate, but then he said, "I would have killed one of them if Hermione hadn't stepped in and saved the bastard's arse."

"Oh," said a nonplussed Harry, "well you know Hermione. She's everyone's conscience when the rest of us are too tired and too angry to care. No denying she can be ruthless when she needs to be, but more often than not, she's the nagging voice that pops up in the back of your head." This was relayed with affection.

Draco said nothing. His grey eyes were trained on a spot on the wall in front of them.

"That's not what you wanted to hear?"

"Dominic Nomarov wasn't in any danger of offing me when I was about to kill him," Draco finally said. It was a very casual confession, but Harry could make out the uncertainty behind it.

"Ok, then what was he doing?"

"Cowering. And I'd been about to kill him because that would have been easier and quicker than taking him prisoner."

Harry wondered if this was meant to shock him. It did, a little. "So you want to know if I would have done the same thing?" Harry surmised.

Draco's gaze was unreadable.

"No," replied Harry without having to think too much about it. "I wouldn't have."

"Which, I suppose, is why you are you and I am me." Draco said with resignation. He topped up Harry's mug and then did the same for himself.

Harry acknowledged that he was quite obtuse when it came to matters of the heart, but he thought he knew what the conversation was really about.

"Hermione still loves you. You should go to her."

Draco did not give any indication that he was surprised by the topic switch. "She probably thinks I'm an AK junkie right now."

"But you're not," Harry said, taking a sip.

Draco gave him an extremely sinister look. Harry had to suppress the urge to edge his chair away a little. "How do you know I'm not?"

"Oh, I don't know," shrugged Harry, "you tend to pick up on these things after living with someone around the clock for six weeks."

For a moment, Draco looked relieved. And then he looked annoyed. "This isn't me asking for advice, Potter. Know that."

Harry held up his palms in a gesture of placation. "Of course not, I wouldn't dream of thinking it was."

"We're not friends," Draco reminded, in much the same manner as Hermione had done five years ago under the foyer stairs at Hogwarts.

Even so, they continued drinking their mulled wine in what could only be described as a rather companiable silence.

**

**Tuesday afternoon**

If she'd been the fainting sort, Ginny Weasley thought she might have fainted from shock (for it'd been a mighty shock indeed).

But the idea of swooning in the immediate vicinity of Lucius Malfoy was unthinkable. She didn't want to make whatever he was planning to do any easier.

The fact that they were on the lingerie floor of Harrods Department Store in London no doubt added to the sheer absurdity of it all.

One moment she'd been eyeing a rather sensibly priced sports bra, the next minute he had virtually popped out from behind a mannequin wearing a black silk and lace nightie.

That was to say, the mannequin was wearing the nightie, not Lucius.

And just because Lavender was probably going to ask anyway, Ginny noted that Lucius was wearing beige cotton trousers and a grey fisherman's jumper.

Lucius Malfoy in chinos and a jumper. Good Lord. Now she had really seen it all. She couldn't recall seeing him in anything less than three layers of beautifully matched clothing.

And leather, in one form or another.

So he was alive after all and certainly he looked well enough. Thinner than what she remembered, but then so was Draco. She guessed being on the run tended to do that to you. His silver hair was short now and he was sporting a neatly clipped beard that had darker grey streaks through it.

She forgot how much the bounty on his head was now. Something astronomical, no doubt. She'd be able to set mum and dad up for life with money like that.

Everyone who hadn't been convinced that both Lucius and Draco were still alive, had been convinced that they were in hiding together. Draco had claimed to have no knowledge of his father's whereabouts after Snape had freed the elder Malfoy from house arrest.

Ginny wasn't sure she believed him, but Harry did and that was usually good enough. Lucius Malfoy's height alone would have made him stand out in a crowd, but as was the case with Draco, Lucius carried himself with an innate sense of entitlement. It must have been a challenge for someone like him to attempt inconspicuousness for a change.

Fugitive or not, he moved like the world owed him a living. The Muggles in his path, women mostly, parted and then they _stared_.

Ginny felt like slapping the lot of them in the back of the head. Lucius was a foul, extremely dangerous, escaped convicted murderer and he was also the reason Severus Snape was spending the rest of his life in prison.

There was also the whole trying to indirectly dispose of her via Tom Riddle's diary 'thing' in her second year.

One could hardly forget _that_ could they?

"Miss Weasley," he said and if by some miracle she hadn't already recognized him, his voice would have done the trick. For a moment, she was twelve again, holding a cauldron full of books at Flourish and Blotts. Loathing and acute fear bubbled up inside her.

Her wand was already poised inside her long sleeve. "Come any closer, you murdering bastard and I'll vaporize you."

He had the audacity to look completely unconcerned. "I am not here to harm you."

She had to tilt her head all the way back to be able to look him in the eye. If he was going try something stupid, she'd be damned if it was going to happen while she stared at his shoes.

"You wouldn't survive it if you tried," Ginny promised.

One corner of his mouth lifted, nearly imperceptibly. He regarded her with amusement. "It is good that Severus has you, at least, after everyone else has left him."

Even Muggles could sense the tense confrontation between them. People were staring warily. She walked around him so that she was standing in the aisle-way and not hidden behind merchandise.

"You've got guts coming back to the UK, Malfoy. I assume you're here to see your son?"

Lucius was well aware of the curious stares they were receiving. He gave her a small smile and held out his arm. "Perhaps we should walk?"

Ginny smiled back with acidic sweetness. "Perhaps you should come back with me to the Ministry and turn yourself in?"

He ignored that. "I have something to give you to assist Severus, but you must be willing to take it from me. And in turn, he must be willing to take it from you."

That cryptic spiel got her attention. He was talking illegal magic. "The only thing I want from you is a signed confession that you forced Snape to free you."

One dark grey eyebrow rose. "Is that what he told you?"

"No," Ginny hissed. She realized she was now walking beside him. "But that would work to clear his name and that's all I care about right now."

"How would I have forced him exactly? I was in no position to bargain."

An elderly woman walking in front of them stopped short suddenly and Lucius had to sidestep her to avoid a collision.

"I don't know. Who knows what sensitive information you hold over people's heads…"

He actually laughed. "I hold _nothing_ now, child. Not even my own name. I am, however, in possession of the one thing that may assist Severus, if you will take it from me."

"You're crazy to think I'd take anything from you! I should detain you right now! Take you to the Ministry for the justice you've run away from like the coward you are!"

"What, in front of all these innocent, bystanding Muggles?" he said smoothly, staring at the old lady as she ambled away. It was as good a threat as any. They were approaching the escalators. "You wouldn't survive it if you tried, my dear," he whispered in her ear.

That voice became a chill that travelled down the rest of her body. She lost a bit of her composure. To any observers, they could have been a father and daughter having a row.

"What do you have to give me?" she asked, hating the slight tremor in her voice.

She tensed when he reached into his pocket, but all he pulled out was a small, brown envelope.

"Severus will know what to do with it. Tell him I'm returning the favour," he said, and then he was on the escalator heading to the lower floor.

"Give Potter my regards."

Merlin blind her if the son of a bitch didn't wink at her before he disappeared out of sight!

Ginny stood there for while, belatedly feeling shaken to her core before she got a hold of herself. She slid her trembling fingers into the envelope and pulled out an ornate gold key looped around a finely wrought gold chain. To say that she was conflicted was an understatement.

The key was pretty enough to wear.

**

Things being as they were, home had become a rather fluid concept for Draco.

Home was the safe place he returned to after doing whatever foul thing he had needed to do over the past few years.

For a while, home had been a series of dingy rooms in a series of dingier inns in the wizarding quarter of Cairo. He had lived in a lean-to, he had lived on the floor space in a camel-merchant's tent. He had once lived in a cave for two weeks. On one God-forsaken monsoonal evening, he had even slept in a tree to avoid being the unwitting meal of prowling jungle cats.

It amazed him how _wet_ a human being could actually get. There was the kind of wet you got from jogging through a drizzle, or a good soaking from being in the Quidditch stands during a torrential downpour. And then there was the type of wet that took tropical rain _hours_ to achieve. After a while of this, it actually felt like you were drowning. Your _bones_ felt wet.

Humans were adaptable creatures, really. Most especially when the luxury of choice was taken away and just surviving became an all consuming goal. Life was almost deliriously simple when you didn't have to care about things like reputation, the quality of the clothes on your back or the company you kept.

There had been a strange sort of escapism in living such a basic existence. All the excesses he had been so used to and assumed he was so reliant on were reduced to unnecessary, cumbersome baggage.

He had seen the extremes of poverty and human baseness. As naive as he had been before his departure from the life he knew, he had still been right to tell Hermione all those years ago that the world was more than just black and white.

And grey. Oh yes, there was a whole array of colour that made up people, Muggles and Magicfolk.

Home had changed for him yet again. Now, it was Malfoy Manor once more - all twenty-six acres of it. The size of it alone made him strangely uncomfortable. He'd traversed the many rooms and parlours that ought to have been familiar.

But it wasn't. It was just space. Expensively furnished space. The memories he had were not poignant. They felt like bits of a past that happened to be his.

Home for Hermione was a yellow-stone cottage in Northhamptonshire with a vegetable and herb garden that was buried under three feet of snow and a shingle roof that looked like it needed mending.

A twenty minute walk westward took you to a small Muggle town with roads and a pharmacy and a primary school and a population of eight hundred extremely normal individuals. Forty minutes east was a wizarding settlement where you could get your broomstick serviced while you ate at the local inn (where they served an excellent beef and Guinness pie).

Potter and the Weasleys, respectively, lived within easy broom-flight distance if one chose to travel by air.

Draco could not honestly think of a better location to settle in if you preferred to live on your own without actually being isolated.

He stood just outside the tilting fence of Hermione's property and wondered what the hell he was doing there. It was nine in the evening and Draco was standing up to his shins in fresh snow, his broom harnessed over his shoulder.

The cold was silent and intense. His breath formed a misty cloud in front of him. Overhead, the sky was clear and cloudless and in the absence of city lights it was possible to see thousands of stars if one was inclined to count them.

There was a little red cylinder letter box at the gate and a forgotten ceramic garden gnome in the front yard almost hidden under the snow.

He had just wanted to see where she lived, he told himself. _How_ she lived. It was like filling in the pieces of a missing picture puzzle, so that he could stand back and grasp the enormity of what he had done to them.

On what he had missed out on…

This was not appropriate by any stretch of the imagination. He knew this. He would not be reduced to some lovelorn, crazed, stalker.

The light from the two windows at the front of the cottage briefly flickered. She was home. Why the hell did she have to be home?

The warmth and welcome of the place drew him in like a magnet. Without really intending to, he took a step forward.


	58. Chapter 58

**Chapter Fifty-Eight**

It wasn't that Ginny didn't feel confident in her ability to be sneaky. She had, after all, grown up in the same household as Fred and George Weasley.

Despite Molly Weasley's best efforts in attempting to keep her youngest and only female-child on the path of filial obedience, some skills could be picked up via osmosis.

Or perhaps it was just genetic?

She could tell a bald face lie with a straight face (although she rarely had need to do this) and she could be counted upon not to fall to pieces in the event of a being sprung.

But this situation was not a Weasley Twins prank that required a third accomplice. Nor was it any other sort of mission that she carried out with, because of, or on behalf of, Harry.

This was law-breaking, pure and simple and if she was found out, the consequences would be catastrophic.

Ginny arranged her features into a tentative but genuine smile as she exited the lift on the fourth floor of Azkaban prison. She approached the young female guard that had let her into Snape's cell the last time she had visited Azkaban with Hermione.

"Hello, Miss," the guard greeted. She was already standing at attention behind her desk. "Back so soon to see Snape?"

"Bitch of a case," Ginny sighed, putting real irritation into her voice. She swung her heavy satchel onto the desk and made a show of digging through it. "As you can well imagine."

The guard nodded sympathetically. Ginny thanked her lucky stars the girl was new. New, young, inexperienced and a little in awe of Harry. Presently, that awe was transferred to Ginny.

"A tragedy, him turning like he did," said the girl in a sagely manner. "My own Pa was at Hogwarts the same year Snape took on his teaching job there. He was full of stories about what the greasy bastard used to do to latecomers-"

Ginny cut her short. She wished she could recall the guard's name.

"Laura was it? I'm really in a quite a hurry this evening."

The girl went red and Ginny experienced a pang of remorse. "It's Constance." She pushed a well-used metal box across her little desk. "You know the drill from last time, Miss. All magical items to be deposited here for the duration of your visit. You'll be seeing him in his cell?"

"Interrogation room, please. I need him to sign a few documents." Ginny was already removing her coat. She undid the top buttons of her cardigan, pulling out the weather predicting raindrop locket that Bill had given her.

As she had done on every visit previously, she dropped the locket and chain into the metal box. Next came a spellchecking quill, a pad of Everlasting Parchment, and a genuine mood ring (which, she realized belatedly, was glowing a bright scarlet). All were minor magical items. Novelty or sentimental pieces, really. But rules were rules, Minister's daughter or not.

"Is that all, Miss?" Constance asked, more as gap-filler in the conversation than anything else.

_Not quite. You really should run a Detector over me to check for hidden items, but you won't because you didn't the last time and you'd be too embarrassed to ask to do it now. _

Ginny's smile could have set in concrete. "Yes, that's it. I just hope I have enough regular paper. I ran out, last time."

She waited a nerve wracking twenty minutes while the girl summoned additional guards to escort Snape into a free interrogation cell. When it was done, Ginny was taken to the room and told that two guards would remain outside should she require any assistance.

Her visits to Snape were nothing new and so everyone involved went through the motions, her client included.

To say that Snape was difficult, was understating the matter. He was, in a word, completely resigned to being locked up for the rest of his life.

And this time, Dumbledore's support had not been enough. Ginny was used to this and had long ago learned not to take it personally whenever he insisted on _reading_ throughout the duration of their meetings. He had books aplenty for this task and was monosyllabic at the best of times when not reading.

He wasn't reading today seeing as they were away from his cell. Ginny often wondered how he managed to keep his prison-issue tunic and trousers so immaculate. They still retained their creases from whenever the last laundry day was. A slovenly Potions Master wasn't a very good Potions Master, she reasoned.

And Snape had been the very best.

"A bit late in the day for business, is it not?" he asked, with a raised eyebrow. He was sitting ramrod straight across from her, his elbows resting on the metal tabletop with his hands clasped.

He had managed to procure a strip of leather to tie his hair back. It was still coal black.

"I thought you would have taken away enough from your last visit to start that farce of an appeal?"

Ginny sighed. It was to have been her first unsupervised appeal. Snape was her first big case. She prayed he wasn't going to be her last.

"An appeal isn't going to work."

"Oh? You have finally taken my advice regarding the futility of your efforts, as appreciated as they are," he added. His politeness still had an icy edge.

She got to the point. "A certain, elusive friend of yours saw fit to approach me in the middle of the lingerie department at Harrods last week."

The look on Snape's face was priceless. It was the first real emotion she had seen from him in a very long time. "A friend, you say? You are sure it was...him?"

Ginny folded her arms. "Professor, I don't know how many people have tried to kill you in your long and eventful life, but I sure as hell do not forget someone once they've tried to do me in, indirectly or otherwise."

Snape's eyes widened fractionally. "Point taken." Then he glared at her. "Foolish girl. That was very dangerous. I gather you have not reported this?"

"You gather correctly."

"Why?"

"Because then I wouldn't be able to give you this." Glancing at the door to make sure it was well and truly shut; she quickly shoved her hand down the top of her cardigan and pulled out the golden key she was wearing on a long, thin chain.

Snape's reaction to seeing the key was not what she expected.

At first he just stared at it, and then he tilted his head back and laughed. It wasn't the disturbing, maniacal cackle you sometimes heard from Azkaban prisoners who had been there a little too long. This was a low, amused, thoroughly _sane_, chuckle.

She frowned at him. "I hope that means you know what to do with it because I don't think it's going to open any of the locks here."

He quit looking amused. "I know what to do with it because I made it. This was what I gave Lucius to assist in his escape from house arrest five years ago."

Ginny was sorry now she hadn't taken a closer look at the key. Hermione would kill to get her hands on something like that for the Department of Mysteries. "_That's_ the mystery device you told them about? What is it, exactly?"

No one who heard the story had believed in the existence of a magical device that enabled its user to open any door. Ginny included. She had assumed it was simply a story Snape was going to stick to, for better or worse.

He stared at her almost challengingly as he replied. "Gold, bronze, blood and heartbreak, forged into the shape that you see here. He twirled the key briefly before deftly palming it. "It will open any door that keeps a person from their loved one."

There was so much irony dripping from his voice, Ginny didn't know what to say.

"It only works if you love someone on the other side of a closed door, literally? And the distance between the two individuals does not matter?"

"Yes."

"_Amazing_," she breathed. "I wasn't under the impression that you could collect heartbreak."

His expression suggested she could answer her own question if she thought hard enough. Well...there was blood. So made up the 'heartbreak' component? Ginny looked up.

"You mean _tears_?" A fleeting image of Snape crying over simmering cauldron was just too ridiculous to maintain.

Snape said nothing.

"So you and Lucius-" She knew he wasn't going to go into any details.

"You know you're the only one that still calls me Professor."

Ginny was inexplicably glad for the change in topics. "And you still call me child."

"It is what you are," he replied. "Why are you doing this?"

"The fact that I'm doing this goes to show what I think about the sentence they imposed on you. You did what you did for the greater good." "

The law does not see it that way, child. Not with my past. Especially not when we are currently at war. We have been down this road before."

"Then those of us who _can_ will just have to make our own justice." She marched over to the door and peeked out through the small, square window at the top. The two guards were not watching.

"You're going to have to knock me out," she said when she turned to look back at him.

He remained completely unfazed. "I would have to for this idiotic plan of yours to work."

Ginny rounded on him. "It's not _my_ idiotic plan, it's Lucius Malfoy's idiotic plan."

Snape conceded that. He stood. Ginny flinched slightly from the quick movement. The key was around his neck now, glinting against the dull prison uniform. "How does that thing work, exactly?"

"It will allow me to pass unnoticed through any doors that stand in my way. Applied to my current predicament, that means I will be able to walk out of Azkaban and as far as the last gatehouse without being seen."

"Good enough," Ginny said, impressed. "Don't hurt any of the guards if you choose to steal a wand."

Snape gave her a bland look, which she took to mean 'don't insult me.'

Ginny gathered a deep breath and then screwed her eyes. "Ok. Do it now. I'm ready."

Nothing happened. There was no blow. Her eyes opened. "Professor, you have to knock me out. I can't do it myself; they'll be able to tell."

She was expecting him to say, "No, no way! This is ridiculous!" And that he wouldn't hit her. But this was Snape. He knew what was required. He didn't look particularly apologetic before the act, nor did he offer any verbal apology.

"I was giving you time to change your mind," he said

"I'm not going to change my mind, now hurry up!"

Later, they would ask her about the last thing she remembered. Because obviously an investigation had to be launched and reports filed into how such a fatal slip in security could have occurred.

They had no clue as to how Snape managed to walk past every single checkpoint and even use the elevators without being seen. He had taken a wand, too.

Horace, the guard working at the register on the ground floor hadn't even noticed his was missing until everyone was ordered to check.

The last thing Ginny remembered was Snape telling her that he had purposely awarded her a foul in the dying minutes of a sixth year Quidditch game he had refereed. That particular foul had cost Gryffindor the match and the championship.

It was one of the few things she and Harry were still a bit sore about.

"There was no foul. Draco was in the wrong," Snape informed her.

It was calculated on his part, she was still convincingly _seething_ when they brought her around.

**

If Muggles employed biometric sensors as part of their security measures, than it followed that some wizards would invent ward-breaking alarms that could be nestled rather nicely inside your head.

Hermione had access to this new and nifty bit of spell-work precisely because she worked in the Department of Mysteries. And everyone knew that the Department of Mysteries got to play with the _coolest_ new spells before even Aurors managed to get a look in.

This was one of those cases in point.

So it was that on that cold, Saturday evening that a little 'ping' went off inside Hermione's head. And this had nothing to do with the timer on the oven where she had just pulled out a hopelessly burnt lasagne dinner.

She'd been on her way to the fridge to see if something new and edible had magically appeared between now and the last time she had checked it two hours ago.

Wearing flannel pyjamas and bunny bedroom slippers than had seen better days, Hermione paused in the middle of her kitchen and blinked in concentration.

The invisible trip wire that guarded her modest property was triggered by someone unexpected entering the compound. It would have been naïve of her to assume that Voldemort would never think to make her a target, whether for information or simply to make Harry suffer.

Anyone who knew Harry well walked around with the same distant, dark thought that something nasty was possibly lurking around the next corner. It came with the territory of caring for Harry and having him care for you. You just dealt with it.

It was really quite cold. The fireplace roared with an uncharacteristically normal flame. A quick exit was not on the cards, since Hermione had disconnected the chute from the Floo network that evening, just in case Nick would try to contact her.

Wasn't that what you normally did when you broke up with someone, avoid them for a few days? She didn't have a clue seeing as this was the first time she had ever had to end a relationship with anyone. Or second time, perhaps, if you counted Krum, which you really shouldn't because that was more one-sided than anything.

Nick, in his typical understated and concise manner, had said he understood. But she didn't think he really did.

This was probably because she had ended it on the basis of incompatibility. Had she told him she was still painfully in love with a boy...correction, a _man_ she'd only known intimately for fourteen days and hadn't actually seen in five years, Nick's reaction might very well have been different.

His calmness in the face of the breakup was yet another glaring indication that they were not right for each other. Hermione prided herself on her practicality, but she understood herself well enough to know that any man who didn't put up more than a brief argument when confronted with the demise of their relationship was not the man for her.

Her head was practical, scientific even, but her heart was not. It was insane and unhealthy to want Nick to throw a chair, to stalk and fume, to _fight_ for her, to give her a look that nailed her brain to the back of her skull and drag the truth of her feelings out of her.

But he didn't do any of this because he was not Draco.

The end of a thus far successful relationship was not an occasion to pour some more tea and have a deep and meaningful conversation about the various trials of life. This was precisely what Nick had done. Hermione had actually left his apartment strangely jubilant, but equal parts bewildered and terrified because she had unearthed a truth about herself that she had tried her best to keep buried.

When Hermione had arrived home, she'd figured an evening off the grid was called for, so to speak. That notion was backfiring now. There was no way to reconnect to the Floo Network quickly enough to make an emergency call.

She would have to Apparate to safety if it came to that.

And it was not going to come to that before she put up some resistance. The bastards had the audacity to attack her home? She would make sure they left with a potent reminder.

The L-shaped kitchen was full of windows and so she bolted into the lounge room where there was more cover. Ducking behind her sofa, she crawled to one of the front windows to peek under the heavy curtains.

It was frosted over from the outside, so she couldn't see very much besides murky dark and the faint sound of the wind blowing through the woods. There was someone in the yard, though. That much was obvious.

Dropping to the floor again, Hermione grabbed a sleeping Crookshanks, basket, rug and all, and lifted up a loose floorboard she had designed for just such an event.

She dropped the basket into a small compartment under the house. The old cat was far too comfortable to mind being temporarily jostled. There was a croaky "brrrow?" as she replaced the floorboard.

"Shush, Crookshanks," she whispered. "This is for your own good." With her wand firmly in hand, she pressed herself flat beside the front door and counted to five.

**

Two months of regular hot meals, a warm bed and a roof over his head had not succeeded in dulling Draco's razor sharp instincts. _Yet_ .

It would probably take a few more years, he reasoned. Some traits were hard-wired, unfortunately.

The snow was coming down hard now such that the cottage and porch in front of him dissolved into a frosty, white blur.

It was a good thing he still managed to see the front door swing open violently. Not waiting to question his judgment, he immediately hit the ground, his gloved hands pressed flat on the snow covered paving. Less than a meter over his head, a magical field spread in an arc from the porch.

He heard, rather that saw the effect of the spell. There was the sinister snapping of twigs, singeing noises and the sound of the white picket fence at the front of the property splintering.

After this concentrated, contained destruction ceased, he cautiously raised himself on his elbows and was confronted by a pair of worn, rabbit slippers inches away from his face. The slippers were rapidly sinking into snow that had turned into slush. All he could see were two pairs of tattered bunny ears and flannel-covered ankles.

Remnants of the spell still swirled around the front yard in a superheated cloud of air.

"Jesus Christ, _Malfoy_!" An incredulous Hermione Granger was standing over him, with - he couldn't help but notice – the glowing red tip of her quivering wand still hovering over his face.

He grabbed it and pointed it elsewhere before she unintentionally blew off his eyebrows.

"Just Draco, is fine," he said as he sat up. He noted that his clothing was already soaked through. "Though I'm flattered you think I'm the son of God."

Yes, that was incredibly lame. Nothing diffused tension like a well-timed, lame joke. Hermione was in no mood to see the lighter side of the situation, however. Her wand hand was visibly shaking and her face was a pale reflection of the snow.

"You ass! I could have killed you!" All amusement vanished then, when he realized how acutely upset she was.

"Lucky for me that you didn't, then," he said softly.

It would have felt entirely natural to step forward and take her into his arms to reassure her, but Draco didn't, because he didn't allow this feeling to eventuate.

Hermione continued staring at him, as if not quite believing that he was indeed standing in her now decimated front yard. She stomped one soaked bedroom slipper and wrapped her arms around her. The colour returned to her cheeks – two dark, red spots on each cheekbone – and the shrewdness came back with it.

Dressed in her too-large pyjamas with rolled-up cuffs, with flakes of snow melting in her dark cap of curls and her eyes spitting brown fire at him, Draco thought she was the prettiest thing he had ever seen.

A familiar, damnable tightness settled in his chest. He was dill to have come there that evening. What did he think was going to happen?

"What are you doing here, Malfoy?" she asked, with a beady expression.

Draco decided honesty was the best course of action at this point. He shoved back his hood. "I'm not sure. I was hoping you could tell me."

A thought suddenly occurred to him. Perhaps she had company over? Now, he felt like the worse kind of dill, a hopeful one. He didn't wait for her to break the news to him, or _worse_, ask him to leave post haste.

"I apologize. I didn't come here to make a scene." He un-slung his broom and started walking back towards the mangled fencing, wet snow squelching under his boots.

"A scene would probably require more than just me to witness it."

Hermione's rueful admission that she they were well and truly alone made him stop and turn around. She was holding open the door for him.

"You'd best come in."


	59. Chapter 59

**Chapter Fifty-Nine**

Hermione thought Draco looked ridiculous sitting in the floral, rolled-arm sofa in her living room, balancing a steaming cup of tea on his knee.

The magnolia-themed fabric on her lounge set was not of her own choosing. It came with the cottage and seeing as it was still somewhat new, Hermione saw no reason to go out and buy a new set. Muggles had become such a throw-away society. She was by no means a pack-rat, but she admitted that she was prone to sentimentality.

_Except when she was busy throwing away and burning certain painful memories_, she morosely reminded herself.

Neither seemed to be in a mood to drink tea, but Hermione had insisted on taking a few minutes in the kitchen to calm her nerves.

She retrieved Crookshanks from his hideout under the floor and fed him a warm saucer of milk. Something as mundane as tea and biscuits didn't suit Draco. Neither did placid, poky living rooms, apparently. It was like wearing clashing colours. His colours were soot-black, grey fire smoke, red curse-sparks and the penetrating green of Avada Kedavra.

That last thought made her shiver. She could picture him amidst staggering opulence and she could picture him in the middle of a barren desert. It was the more normal settings in between that didn't quite work.

She had always thought of herself as a rather normal, sort of in between type of girl.

He called the darkness in the room to him like some sort of black-attracting magnet. This was probably due to his colouring. Everything stood out against him in marked contrast, including her, it seemed.

The fire was in full swing, but he still had to be cold. His wet cloak was plastered to his body. She could easily make out the lines of his biceps, his arms, his chest and the way his upper torso narrowed to his waist. Strong, elegant hands held the saucer, flexing lightly as he moved. His long index tapped against the tea cup gently.

Hermione distractedly stared down at her own tea. Warm blood rushed to her extremities, which was a good thing seeing as her toes and fingers were partially numb. Her damp scalp prickled with heat, however. There was a nasty flu bug going around. Ron had just come down with something. In fact -

"We really should get out of these clothes," she blurted, and then blushed to the roots of her hair.

Regrettably, her mouth sometimes failed to wait for potentially daft statements to be vetted by her brain before saying them. Normally, she just counted on whatever she said to be accurate. Because she was Hermione, it generally was, even if it wasn't always tactful.

Ron had once said that her particular brand of brilliance needed its own PR agent.

God, she really was her own worst enemy. Hermione closed her eyes for a moment in quiet mortification.

Draco didn't so much as raise an eyebrow. He just looked her with an expression she couldn't describe. She knew she had seen all there was to see of him. But that had been five years ago. A lot could happen in five years. She was currently trying not to _stare_ at what had happened in five years.

There was also the fact that memories could not always be trusted in the long term. They tended to get fuzzy around the edges. Or even worse, the mind might take it upon itself to get unnecessarily _creative_ with its memories.

Hermione sucked in a breath and stuck her big toe in different waters. If he didn't say something very soon, she might throw a biscuit at him.

She cleared her throat. "Since you're here, I wanted to ask you something about Fida Mia. Loose ends, so to speak."

Damn his composure. How was it possible that he made her feel intimidated when it was him who had called on her unexpectedly and nearly got himself halved in the process?

"What did you want to know?" was his low response. There was a sensual curiosity in his tone. Or maybe that was just his version of being polite. Here she was, practically sitting in a soggy puddle and the man wasn't even shivering. It was grossly unfair.

Hermione tried to ignore her unsettling thought processes. "What happened to your tattoo?" Seemingly aware that she was not able to look him in the eye, he purposely sought out her wavering gaze, not replying until she was looking at him.

"The same thing that happened to yours the moment you drowned in the Great Lake. It disappeared."

Hermione thought for a moment, a small frown appearing between her eyebrows. "Because my death meant the seal was broken," she concluded. "And then that was it? The spell was lifted?"

"Yes."

She worried her lower lip with her teeth. "And did that have anything to do with…"

"With why I left?" he said. "You think that the end of Fida Mia meant the end of my feelings for you?"

"Well that made sense at the time." It was good to feel her bitterness returning. That kept her focused.

He sat just a little bit straighter. "Did you understand what I said to you at the Manor?" he asked, carefully.

"I don't recall saying I accepted your explanation," she answered coldly.

"Ah," Draco responded, seeming to come to some great and disappointing conclusion. "Splendid. Then we make absolutely no progress."

Hermione immediately felt sorry. She wanted to reassure him that she wasn't purposely punishing him. It was just that she was still very, very upset...

He set down his tea cup and saucer next to the plate of biscuits. "Why did you invite me in? I can't see Winter approving."

She had been just about to tell him that about her break up with Nick, but his uppity tone got to her. "Why would I need his approval to have a guest over at my own house?"

"Because if I were him, I'd bloody well have a problem with you letting me into your house," he snapped.

"Well you're not Nick, are you?" she replied.

The conversation was a contender for World's Most Stupid Argument.

He stood up. "I shouldn't be here."

She stood up too. Shot up like a rocket, more like it. Her hand found its way to her hip. "So that's it, then? You're leaving?"

"Was there something else you needed me for?" Again, that same layered statement, though his tone was most definitely sharper now.

She blushed, despite herself. "I finally read the Committee's report. Every word of it."

Something changed. Draco smiled, and there was nothing else he could have done that would have thrown her off even more. The smile challenged her. He walked toward her. Or perhaps stalked was the better word for it.

The look in his eyes was meant to make her feel small. Hermione felt her feet backing herself away from him. The fear was familiar and she hated that he still had the power to do it to her.

"So now you really do know what I'm capable of," he surmised, so casually, but there was a taunt buried in there. "Your worst suspicions from what happened at the Manor with Dominic Nomarov have been confirmed."

"Like I said, I _read_ what happened. You did what you had to do," Hermione said. She looked up at him, didn't flinch when his hand came up to stroke her cheek using his knuckles. He ran his thumb over her lower lip, staring at it as he did so.

"Then, sweetheart, why are you shaking like a leaf?" he taunted. "Tell me you're not afraid of me and fucking _mean it_."

She shivered. "I'm not afraid of you."

"Really," he drawled. It was hardly a question. He pressed on, more urgently this time. "Since you're bent on lying to me, tell me you don't love me. Tell me that and I swear to you, I will never bother you again."

He expected her and say no! But...but _why_ did he want her to say no?

It took her only a moment to answer her own question and in doing so she realised that she and Draco really were more alike than they assumed.

He wanted her to tell him to leave and never come back because then he wouldn't have to keep baring his soul to her only to keep getting rejected.

Everyone, even persons of great practicality and logic tended to wonder about Their One True Mate, even if it meant just thinking about that whole slippery concept in a purely speculative, un-emotional manner. To a cautious, scientific mind, Soul Mates were the proverbial round pegs in the ordered square holes of life. It was a fuzzy and pleasant, but most definitely fanciful, notion. Hermione Granger was not given to notions of fancy.

That was, until Draco Malfoy had sauntered back into her life. He obliterated her hard-worn logic. He came with his own set of rules. Hermione understood why he had left five years ago and it hadn't really taken the Inquiry's report to do it. It hadn't even taken his heartfelt explanation at the Manor to do it. She had understood all along, but anger and bitterness were an addictive combination to lessen the hurt of a broken heart. She had lost her soul mate once to his perceived destiny, but she wasn't about to let him walk away from her a second time.

Damn both their prides to hell and back. She wasn't going to lie to save her pride.

"I do love you, Draco. With all my heart," she told him, breathlessly.

And the truth shall set you free.

Hopefully, anyway.

Draco looked dumbstruck.

Hermione continued, just in case he was mustering up something idiotic to say.

"The reason I invited you in was to tell you that I've ended it with Nick."

Draco's silver gaze flickered like breath over candlelight. His eyebrows lifted. "When?" he whispered.

"Earlier this evening."

"Oh."

Oh indeed. He still seemed a little dazed. She ran her hand up to his face, pushed some of his wet hair back, lightly ran her fingertips down his forehead and then slowly slid her index finger down the straight line of his nose. It was a purely indulgent exploration. She couldn't stop herself.

"You're cold," Draco said absently, cupping her fingers and breathing over them. He made it sound as if it was his fault.

She gave him a dreamy smile. He glanced toward the bedroom door, which was ajar, and then looked further down the short hallway towards the bathroom.

"Do you have a bath tub in there?"

Her voice was mostly breath when she replied. "Yes, but it's tiny."

"Shower, then?"

_God, was this really happening?_ "Ok."

The cottage's bathroom was a testament to the 70s love affair with lime green and orange. She stood beside the laminated vanity, clasping her hands together chastely and watched as he leaned into the mosaic covered shower stall to turn the water on. The pipes were old and cantankerous and there was a great deal of embarrassing groaning before warm and then hot water blasted from the shower head.

"We'll be warm in a minute," he said.

Hermione had half a mind to tell him that the temperature in the small bathroom had already climbed several notches now that he was unfastening his cloak. The wet, heavy garment dropped to the floor.

Next came a jumper and then a long-sleeved shirt, which he peeled off. It was like being in the Prefect's Bath all over again. Only completely different.

She didn't want to throw her shoes at him now.

His back was broad, sleek and damp. Hermione hadn't been expecting to see a tattoo there, of course, but the sight of his unmarked skin still made her extremely weepy. Her emotions were all a-jumble. Nervousness, anticipation and overwhelming happiness had to be leaking out of her pores, such was the intensity of her feelings.

She sighed.

His pants were still on. He was watching her carefully; his expression a perfect blend of concern and tangible wanting.

"We don't have to do anything other than have a shower."

She gave him a cheeky look. "Really? We don't have a good track record with hot water, if you'll recall."

He actually blushed a little. "No, I suppose not. Last time was my fault though."

Hermione grinned. "I'll take full responsibility for whatever happens here, then."

She stepped out of her pyjama bottoms and underwear, leaving her pyjama top on. It was long, the hem reached mid-thigh. Her fingers were clumsy and clammy as she fumbled with the buttons. She suddenly felt incredibly shy.

"Let me," Draco said. And then he slowly unbuttoned her, button by button, working his way down with precision slowness.

When he was done, he paused for a moment, holding the edges of her shirt together.

"Like I said earlier...we don't need to go any further."

Her small hands covered his. "Are you worried?"

His voice was harsh when he replied. "Of course I'm worried. I don't want to...overwhelm you."

"How come you're the only one doing the overwhelming? Mightn't I overwhelm you a little?" she joked.

He snorted. "Granger, you _unravel_ me. Every time. All too easily."

That was the most wonderful compliment he had ever given her. She gave him a watery smile. Her smile went into hiding when he undid his trousers, tossed them to a corner and then stepped into the shower stall.

She forgot how he was about nudity. Or rather, how he _wasn't_. Summoning up some fresh courage, she dropped her shirt on the floor and joined him.

As anticipated, the hot water was heavenly. Hermione closed her eyes and let the water run over her head, shoulders and back. Draco was lightly rubbing her upper arms, leaving a discreet distance between them.

Hermione wanted to smile at his obvious hesitance, but there wasn't much humour left. She was quite sure her eyes had glazed over.

"You get under too," she said, thickly.

The shower head was set a bit too low for him, so he tilted it upwards and stepped under the spray. They were now body to body and she revelled in the feel of his unabashed erection pressing up against the curve of her belly. He was hotter than the water, if that was possible. He was hard and alive and oh so very real. She looked up at him, feeling happy and scared and light-headed.

"I am afraid you know," she admitted. "Just a little."

His hands politely held her to him just above her backside, his thumbs massaging the base of her spine leisurely. "Me too."

She stood on her toes to kiss him since he seemed determine to be so frustratingly cautious.

Hermione felt the change in him instantly. Tension sprang in his arms as if a switch had been flicked on. His right thigh moved to corral her closer to him. He picked her up off the ground and pinned her against the tiled wall of the shower stall.

Her legs automatically wrapped around his waist, her head thrown back as he kissed and sucked down her throat after leaving her mouth. The water beat down his back, steam billowed everywhere and the heat at once became overwhelming where it was once pleasurable. Hermione felt like she was drowning in the thick, hot air.

Her hands were at his shoulders, though she didn't really need to support herself seeing as he was holding her weight up rather efficiently. His hands held her around her ribcage under her breasts. He wasn't just looking at her face anymore. No more politeness. He meant to take what he wanted to take. Lifting her higher, he sucked at her breasts, running his tongue around each areola before punctuating the intimate caress with sharp tugs at her nipple.

Hermione gasped, feeling a jolt of electricity shoot all the way from her nipples down to her toes.

"Ahh...oh God. _Draco_."

Draco hovered over her mouth again, his head slightly tilted. He stared down at her through heavy, wet lashes.

"Stop?" He licked his lips. She wanted to lick them too. And then she did. That was enough of an answer for him.

Hermione wound her hands tight around his neck. "Please, I want all of you. Now, Draco."

"All of me?" he asked, and there was a definite lascivious sparkle in his eyes now as he dragged his palm over her hip to her thigh, raising her leg even higher around his waist.

The blunt head of his cock was poised over the soft, entrance to her body. "Are you sure, Granger?" He nudged forward and his cock split her open, only a little. It was torture.

Her reply was a whimper.

She was so ready she felt like the slightest well-aimed pressure between her legs was liable to send her over the edge. They may as well have been cast adrift from the real world. There was nothing else to think about, nothing else to consider except the need to hold him inside her.

And still he held back. But his resistance was taking a toll on him as well. His breathing was ragged and there was a wildness now in his eyes that thrilled her. She wanted to push herself onto him, impale herself all the way down until there was nothing left of him outside of her.

Draco slid his hand down between their slick bodies. Her head fell to his shoulder as she felt the rough pads of two fingers began to create a wonderful friction where she needed it most badly. She bucked against him.

"_Oh_." She was so close. Her nails dug into his shoulders. He stopped his rhythmical caressing and instead pressed his fingers against her. She wanted him to move.

"Hermione."

Her eyes fluttered open.

He looked very serious. He looked like he wanted to have A Conversation. She thought she might very well go crazy from being denied.

"Last time we did this. I said that you would belong to me? Do you remember?"

She tried to move so that his fingers were back where they were before.

But he held firm. "Oh please..."

"Do you remember?" he asked again.

"Yes. Yes, I remember."

"You don't belong to me, Granger. Or anyone else. I've seen enough in this world of what happens when people think they have the right to own anyone else. You belong _with_ me, but I don't claim any ownership over you. Alright? I just needed to make that clear."

It was a wonder her tongue could even work. This was important to him so she made an effort. "I understand."

He nodded. With a guttural noise, he slid two digits inside her and that was all it took. Hermione came so hard she cried out into his shoulder and shook. Her delicate internal muscles clutched at his fingers.

"_God_," he said, now sounding like he was the one being tortured.

And that marked the end of his control. She was boneless and trembling when he gently opened her legs wider to make room for him and then thrust up into her as she was still coming, so forcefully that the soles of her feet left the ground.

She really was impaled for a moment. He kept perfectly still with his eyes closed, allowing the remnants of her orgasm to wash over the length of him.

And then he started moving; hard, decisive thrusts that jolted her upwards. He was completely silent as he took her. The water drowned out her small, sharp gasps at each deep thrust. It was delicious. The push and drag of it, the way the blunt tip of him seemed to strike that craving, keening part deep inside her.

After a while of this she didn't have the strength left to hold herself up. He took over the task, lifting her bodily.

Now face to face, she sought out his mouth and kissed him with all the love and passion that was in her.

She felt his breathing become uneven. He tensed, pulling her more tightly against him as he climaxed heavily, their mouths still sealed together, sharing heated breath. Hermione closed her eyes, savouring the feel of him as he spent himself.

After catching her breath, she looked up at him with widely dilated eyes. She had planned on some loving words, but all that came out was. "Malfoy, I think I'm going to pass out from the heat."

He immediately set her down and turned the water off. She rested against each other for a moment, in a cloud of steam.

"I'm very glad you trespassed this evening, even if I almost took your gorgeous head off in the process," she said into his chest.

Hermione couldn't see his face but she guessed he looked languid. She recalled how it had been between them after making love. She got chatty. He got reflective.

"I didn't plan this," Draco said, rubbing his face into her neck. "If I had planned it, there would have at least been _dinner_."

He sounded so apologetic that she started laughing."

"Are you hungry?" she asked. "I'll make us something."

"You're going to cook?"

The smell of the burnt lasagne had been quite evident from the loungeroom.

Hermione didn't care for the scepticism in his voice, but she forgave him because he was courteous enough to wrap her up in a towel and carry her into her bedroom.


	60. Chapter 60

**Chapter Sixty**

It was some time before dawn. The sky was still mostly black, but there were red and orange, marble-like swirls snaking through the clouds. The glass on the windows was frosted over with condensation.

It was warm in Hermione's bedroom. Not the dry warmth that came with a climate-control spell. This was a slow, pervasive warmth that went all the way inside you, into your bones, into all the parts of you that you thought were destined to feel permanently chilled. It was about as good as a winter's morning was likely to get.

"Brrrow."

Crookshanks was a furry, orange donut at the foot of the bed. He'd been slightly clingy since Hermione retrieved him from the hiding spot under the lounge room floorboards. She had added a hot water bottle to an already mountainous collection of bunny rugs in his basket, but he never failed to make it back to the bed.

If Draco had to guess, he'd say the cat was feeling a touch possessive.

"You can have your mistress all to yourself after breakfast," Draco whispered.

Seemingly satisfied, Crookshanks put his blocky head down and went back to sleep.

Draco resumed watching Hermione. He had been doing so for the past hour, in fact. She slept like he remembered: deeply, limbs thrown every which, an almost intent expression on her face. Some people frowned and twitched in their sleep. She was still. Like a child, Hermione released the occasional soft sigh, the corners of her cupid-bow mouth curving upwards ever so slightly.

If she was dreaming, it was a good dream.

She was lying across the top half of him, her cheek pillowed on his bare chest, rising and falling gently with each breath he took. The top of the sheet and quilt they shared lay across her bottom half, just above her tailbone. Draco stared down, past her head and relaxed shoulders, down her elegant back, over the gentle curve where back became buttocks.

The view, in Draco's estimation, was superb.

She wriggled a little and turned her face to the left side, revealing curls on the right side that had been flattened from sleep.

Draco touched one of the bigger curls on her mop of short hair. He did this cautiously, afraid that taking his good fortune for granted was going to tempt fate to whisk her away. Like a burst bubble. Or worse, maybe he would wake up alone and cold at the Manor.

There was real light now coming through the windows, such that he felt the warmth of the sun on his face. It was officially a new day and thankfully, it felt real. This was no dream.

When he looked back at Hermione, her brown eyes were open. She didn't look all that awake. In fact, she looked a little grumpy. Draco didn't know why, but he suddenly held his breath, bracing himself for her change of heart.

"Your feet are cold," she grumbled, scrunching up her nose a little and then, she was asleep again.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Draco resumed stroking her hair.

**

Someone knocked on the front door. Hermione raised herself on her elbows as she woke up. She twisted around. Draco was seated at the foot of the bed, already mostly dressed and pulling on his boots.

His clothes still looked a little damp. She remembered hanging them beside the fire before they finally got to sleep.

"Stay there," he said, curtly. It took her a moment to rub the sleepiness out of her eyes. So much for a tender, affectionate, "Hi, good morning." Hermione felt a twinge of hurt.

She sat up, holding the sheet to her breasts. "What time is it?"

The knocking sounded again. He stood and buttoned up his fly. "Quarter to seven. Are you expecting anyone this early?"

Hermione frowned. She decided she much preferred Draco naked. She knew what he was about when his clothes came off. Fully-clothed, he seemed distant and businesslike. "No. But it won't be anyone who shouldn't be here or else the alarm would have gone off."

His eyebrow lifted. "This would be the same soundless alarm that alerted you when I entered your front yard?"

"Yep. It's all in my head," she replied, with a small, smug look. She knew he was impressed by the spell.

"You'll have to tell me how that works later," he said and then had the audacity to walk toward the door.

"Hang on a second, Malfoy. Come back here."

Feeling playful, Hermione shuffled to the edge of her bed on her knees, pulled him in by his shirt front and kissed him soundly.

"Good morning, Draco," she admonished. His lips parted and she thought to reward his compliance by deepening the kiss, but as usual, things got out of hand very quickly.

The sheet fell away. He looked at her face, his expression grave. She wondered if daytime was bringing with it a myriad of worries that were now tempering his passions.

But no, apparently not.

He arched her over his arm, kissed her neck and then lavished attention over her breasts. Hermione had always thought them a good deal less than ample, but if Draco found them lacking, you wouldn't have known it to look at him. His warm palms took hold of her breast and massaged. He laved and then suckled on the hard, sensitized tips before placing gentle, sucking bites oh the undersides of her breasts.

In the brightness of day, seeing his blond head moving over her chest was stirring.

He was being incredibly soft, a marked contrast to the dominance and aggression the night before. It didn't matter how he made love to her, she drank it all in with equal thirst. She felt wonderfully fragile and cherished.

They were both lying back on the bed now. He was placing soft, wet kisses up her inner thigh. Desire thrummed through her. She was sore and sensitive from the night's activities and if he kept going where she assumed he was going, Hermione didn't think she'd be able to bear it.

The knocking on the front door had now become banging.

She grabbed his shoulders and pushed lightly. He stopped, ever responsive to her cues. They shared another look and then Hermione felt warm breath between her legs for a moment, and then his even hotter tongue parted her slick, swollen lips and began to flick and stab.

She gasped and dragged a pillow over her face to muffle the additional sounds she made. Last night, all of this had been as decadent as it was emotional. This morning, it was stark and real and..._ohhh_.

She came.

_Bang, bang, bang_ went the front door.

Light exploded behind her closed eyes. In the middle of all of it, she was aware that Draco picked her up and held her in his lap as the tremors overtook her. He ran his warm fingers along her back in long, soothing strokes. His erection was a steel brand at her lower back.

"I'm going to answer the door now," he whispered.

How could he sound so normal after _that_?

Hermione didn't think she could handle him letting go of her, but she managed.

"Put some clothes on and come outside when you're ready." He kissed her on the forehead.

And then he was gone, shutting the bedroom door behind him with a soft click. It was a good thing magical folk tended to live such long lives, Hermione couldn't help thinking. She'd need all those extra years to simply get used to life with Draco.

Feeling extremely happy and relaxed, she flopped back on the bed, pulled all the covers over her head. Presently, she felt something nudge at her. She poked her head out from under the sheets and found herself staring at a set of familiar, expectant, amber-coloured eyes.

"Goodness, Crookshanks I thought I left you in your basket?"

The old cat gave her an 'is he gone now?' sort of look and then started to purr up a storm.

"You are so sleeping on the couch tonight mister," she scolded, but then completely ruined the threat by cuddling him.

**

Ron was red from exertion by the time Hermione's front door swung open. He realized he was standing there with a scowl on his face and his fist in the air, looking like a moron, but shock soon outweighed all other thoughts.

Draco Malfoy, dressed head to toe in black flying robes, was looking at him with a slightly annoyed expression.

"Yes?"

"What are _you_ doing here?" Ron demanded, regretting the fact that his voice climbed half an octave. "And what happened to the front fence?"

"I'm not the one banging on the door at an unseemly hour on a Sunday morning," Draco calmly reminded.

Ron tried to look over Draco's shoulder, but Draco made a point of filling up the doorway with little space left over. "Where's Hermione? I need to see her. Actually, it's good that you're here too. I have something to tell the both of you." He took a step forward.

Draco slammed his open palm against the doorjamb, halting Ron's progress. "She's getting dressed and then we're going to sit down to a nice, civilized breakfast. You and I have already been through this once before, so don't make this awkward for her now, Weasley," he warned, and there was nothing mild in his voice now.

Ron was insulted. "We're not at school any more. It might surprise you to know I do have manners."

Draco smiled thinly. "Yes, it would surprise me."

Ron scowled. "Can I come in now?"

Draco stood aside.

Hermione was tightening the belt on a white robe as she walked into the lounge. She noted, firstly, that it'd been Ron at the door and that he and Draco seemed to be trying to give each other brain aneurisms via looks of contempt.

"What, has a simple 'good morning' gone out of fashion or something?" she muttered, sounding exasperated.

She turned concerned brown eyes to Ron. "What is it Ron? Is everything alright?"

Hermione was decent but she might as well not have been. She looked flushed. Her hair was tousled and her lips looked swollen. Still, Ron thought he managed to pull himself together rather admirably and deliver the ambiguous news.

"Snape escaped last night."

"What!" Hermione said, her eyes going wide.

Draco was more intrigued than shocked. "How?"

"They're guessing he had assistance," said Ron. "He didn't break a single lock or ward. For all intents and purposes, it would seem that he strolled out of Azkaban and not a soul witnessed it. Well, apart from Ginny."

"Ginny!" Hermione exclaimed. "She was _there_?"

"Er, yes." It was clear that this part of the story made Ron a touch uncomfortable. "She had scheduled a meeting in the evening in a private interrogation cell. He managed to knock her out and then escaped."

This time Draco did look stunned. "Snape laid hands on Ginny Weasley?"

"She's fine," Ron was quick to reassure Hermione, who suddenly paled.

"He got her on the back of the head. She landed neatly. Hardly even a lump to speak of. Although try telling that to Harry-"

"Where is Ginny now?" Hermione interrupted.

Ron scrubbed at the back of his head. "She's at the Burrow with Harry. I don't know who is more upset, Harry or Mum. We already have people on Snape's trail, the only problem is that he hasn't seemed to have left much of one." He turned to Draco. "What's this about a meeting with my father? He says you sent an owl last week asking to speak to him about Snape's sentence."

"I did," Draco confirmed. He was sitting on the arm-rest of Hermione's floral sofa with his arms folded. He looked faintly amused. "But it certainly looks like the problem has been rectified."

Ron grunted. "Yeah, about that… bit of a coincidence, innit?"

Draco gave Ron a withering look. "Not really, a coincidence would be your father telling me he couldn't assist in getting Snape a re-trial and then Snape conveniently escaping and then you finding me at the Manor this morning without Hermione as an air-tight alibi."

Ron turned expectantly to Hermione.

"Oh for goodness's sake, Ron! Yes, he was with me the whole night! From about eight in the evening."

"That doesn't necessarily mean he didn't' have anything to do with it," Ron pointed out.

"Ronald-"

Draco stood. "You're right, it doesn't. And I'll have you know I might have done exactly that if there was no option for a retrial."

"Malfoy, you're not helping."

Ron shrugged. "At least we're being honest." He glanced hopefully in the direction of the kitchen. "While I'm here, any chance of a cup of tea? It's bollocks outside."

Hermione made an exasperated noise, turned on her heel and walked to the kitchen.

Ron regarded Draco for a moment. "About Snape's breakout, I'm aware that everyone who is familiar with the case is thinking it, but no one's game enough to say it. Well, Dumbledore would probably say it…"

"By 'it' you mean that his escape qualifies as real justice?"

"Better justice than a life sentence, surely," Ron replied. "Not my dad's version of justice, nor the Wizengamot's, obviously. And my saying this in no way lessens the enthusiasm of the search. We'll be doing things by the book. If we find him, he goes back in."

"Of course," said Draco, and there just enough condescension in his voice to irk Ron.

There was a long pause punctuated only by Hermione's less than subtle banging in the kitchen. There was the sound of a metal utensil dropping to the floor and then Hermione's mild curse.

"So," Ron began, "I, uh, gather everything between you and Hermione is all sweet again?"

Old Draco would have told him to rack off and mind his own business, but New Draco didn't seem to have a problem answering.

"As much as it could ever have been called 'sweet'". Malfoy was looking at him with speculation in his uncanny eyes. It was making Ron twitchy.

Ron nodded. "I guess you two weren't exactly the hand-holding, roses on St. Valentine's Day type. Myself, I can't see the logic of getting entangled with a girl right now…"

Draco's smile was cool. "Logic has never had anything to do with it, unfortunately."

"Right," agreed Ron. He realized he was being and feeling slightly morose, and attempted to snap out of it.

The day he actually admitted to liking Draco Malfoy was the day he'd ask Terry Boot out to dinner. He was going to have to make an effort to be civil towards Malfoy, however, because he told himself he respected Hermione's decision.

"That silver picture frame behind you, that's my little niece. My brother Bill's little girl. It's her birthday today."

The change in topic and mood didn't seem to faze Draco. He glanced at the mantelpiece behind him and at the picture in question. The child was very fine-featured and attired in a dress that looked like it was constructed entirely out of doilies. One could be forgiven in assuming she came from a family where female children were few and far between. Her long hair was in neat pigtails, ending in oversized white ribbons.

She smiled at him, revealing a missing front tooth. Her hands were clutched behind her back and she was twisting slightly from side to side in the manner of a child who had a secret that needed to be coaxed out of her. The Burrow was in the background of the photo, in all its shambolic glory.

Draco noted her hair that was the colour of a summer wheat field. Not a hint of ginger to be seen.

"I'm guessing she takes after her mother?" Draco asked.

Ron grinned. "Only in looks. She's a cheeky little thing. Sometimes, I can't believe how much has happened in such a short space of time. I mean, some of us actually have kids now. I reckon I feel much older than I am, you know what I mean?"

"I think I know," said Draco, quietly.

"I understand you and Harry talk a lot lately, and I know we don't exactly get along. But now that you're going to be a part of Hermione's life, I just wanted to tell you that you have my approval." He ended this little speech with a nod, for emphasis.

Of course the bastard had to go and look amused. "Thank Merlin for that, Weasley. Now I can sleep at night."

"You're still a tosser, though," Ron felt the need to remind.

An oven mitt hit him in the back of the head. Hermione was in the living room. She shot him a look that was several degrees colder than the frigid weather outside.

Her tone was warmer, however. "Breakfast is ready. And by ready I mean I've burnt the toast and probably overdone the eggs. The water's just boiled up for tea now."

"I'll make the tea," Draco offered, averting further disaster. He glanced at Ron. "You are staying for breakfast aren't you?"

Ron retrieved Hermione's oven mitt missile and grinned. "Like I've ever been one to refuse a free meal."

**

Harry was in a foul mood. It didn't help that he had just had a massive row with Ginny who had practically slammed his front door in his face.

Granted, he _had_ said a few regretful things.

Why did Snape have to escape on a bloody Saturday night? It had ruined everyone's weekend. Reaction to the news of the escape varied widely.

Those who knew the finer details of Snape's case responded with a sort of gritty resignation that justice, however inappropriate, had finally been served. Malfoy himself had petitioned Arthur Weasley for a re-trial now that he was available to testify as a witness to the events from five years ago, but Arthur had apparently been blowing him off.

Those who only knew Snape as a former death eater, on the other hand were hammering the Wanted posters all over London.

The topic of Snape's escape was still a very raw one. It didn't take a great intellect to ask Ginny the _right_ sort of questions. She could lie well when the occasion called for it, but she had never been able to lie very well to Harry.

Which was why it annoyed the hell out of him that she tried. She trusted him with her own fate, but not with Snape's apparently. Arthur was in a right royal snit about Azkaban's only escape since Bellatrix had busted out.

Ron was strutting around being Highly Suspicious of everyone and then there was a stooped, old woman waiting outside his office…

Harry had no idea how long she'd been standing there. She had a pass pinned to her taupe cardigan, which obviously meant she had secured an appointment.

"Can I help you?" Harry asked briskly. He opened his office door for her.

She smiled up at him and replied in a lightly accented voice. "You are a very busy man, it seems, Mr. Potter. I placed my inquiry about a month ago."

Harry sat at his desk and inwardly groaned at the small mountain of memos gently rustling for his attention. His appointment diary was buried somewhere under the pile. "Unfortunately a month's wait for an appointment is considered prompt, actually. I'm sorry. I didn't catch your name…" He dug for his dairy to see if his secretary had scribbled down any background information about the appointment that he could refer to.

"Mrs. Hendricks," she beamed, looking like everyone's cookie-baking, jumper-knitting grandmother. "But please call me Nana."

The name rang a quiet, tinkling little bell that wasn't quite loud enough to jog Harry's memory. "How can I be of service?" he asked.

"I've been living in London for a number of years now since my great-grandson was killed. I'd like to go home to Copenhagen, Mr. Potter, but not without my grandson's remains. We have a family plot and I have it in mind to give him a proper burial."

Harry frowned. His date book emerged and he thumbed through it. Bugger. He saw that he was booked until noon, at least. That didn't leave much time to try and coax Ginny out for a mid-morning coffee. "I'm not sure I understand," he replied, still distracted.

She never lost her genial expression. "Well, you have his eyes, you see."

Startled, Harry glanced up. "Come again?"

"You have his eyes," Nana Hendricks patiently repeated. "My Arne was killed in Knockturn Alley five years ago and his eyes were taken. I believe they were entered as evidence in the prosecution of his murderer?"

Recollection swarmed like a flood. Harry removed his glasses and blinked at the stooped old woman, noting for the first time that she had one blue eye and one green eye, rendered slightly cloudy from age. He realized he was staring.

"That was you! You were the Fida Mia practitioner that put the spell on Malfoy and Hermione!"

"I do not cast Fida Mia, young man," she corrected. "I merely _allowed_ for it to take place."

Harry was floored. "I know the case, but I wasn't working with the Ministry at the time it occurred."

"Oh, I am aware of that," she nodded. "I could have made my appointment with the person who was in charge, but I thought you might be able to expedite the situation now given your personal involvement with the case?"

There was a glint of pleading in those old eyes.

Using Floo Fire, Harry summoned the appropriate staff member, which happened to be Zacharias Smith. Smith was less than pleased to be sent to the other end of the Ministry, to trawl through five years worth of evidence to locate the item in question, but Harry had a knack for persuasion.

"They're back together, you know. Malfoy and my friend, Hermione," he told Nana Hendricks, while they waited.

She didn't seem surprised. "I considered myself just about retired from the moment my boy was killed. I had not the heart, nor the will to keep going without my dear Arne. It was fitting that our last job together was on that particular young couple. It turned out to be true Fida Mia. Can't guarantee that happens very often." She beamed at him, her face a sea of wrinkles. "Ending on a high note, you see? The young man and his lady, they are still acquaintances of yours, are they not?"

"Friends," Harry corrected. "What do you mean when you say there isn't a guarantee that Fida Mia happens often?"

"Not all love is the same, Mr. Potter. It is like that old Muggle saying, you can lead a horse to water, but you can't force it to drink, yes? Hearts and minds are stubborn things sometimes. Souls on the other hand, well now, they tend to know what's what."

A heavy, dull feeling settled at the bottom of Harry's stomach. He suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to apologize to Ginny…

Almost as if she was reading his mind. The old woman's milky gaze lowered to Harry's desk, where a picture of Ginny was currently scowling at him with her arms folded.

"Wife?" Nana Hendricks asked.

"Er, no. Girlfriend."

She reached into her carpet bag and rummaged for a while. Out came a walking stick, a copper kettle and what looked to be a set of steak knives. She eventually drew out a slightly scrunched up business card, with a pleased "ah, there you are," and smoothed it out before handing it to Harry.

The bright purple text was a series of squirming squiggles. They only started to take shape into words once the translation spell imbued into the card recognized the need to display the text in Harry's native English.

_Tired of the same, old 'I do's'?_

_Looking for something private, meaningful and permanent?_

_Why not try a Marriage Tattoo?_

_Ask for Nana at the Snake & Stone,_

_Knockturn Alley, Magical London._

_Free souvenir mug for the month of May!_

Permanent, alright, thought Harry, clearing his throat. His memories of the trials and tribulation of Hermione's personal experience of Fida Mia were still fresh.

"Ah yes, well…my girlfriend and I… It's really very kind of you to offer, Mrs. Hendricks, but Fida Mia isn't really our sort of thing."

She shrugged. "Then give that to the young man and his lady. If only for a story to tell their children."

Harry coughed. The thought of little Dracos running around was enough to give him a headache. Little Hermiones on the other hand, would obviously be a wonderful and charming thing to behold.

There was a knock at the door.

"Come in," called Harry.

Zacharias Smith entered, bearing a small box marked 'EVIDENCE' on the lid. He looked faintly flustered.

"This appears to be what you asked for…though I wouldn't recommend looking inside it."

"Ta, Smith," Harry said, taking the box.

Zacharias looked rather curiously from Harry to Nana Hendricks and then to the box.

"_Thank you_, Smith," Harry repeated.

When Zacharias had left, looking a little annoyed, Harry wordlessly handed the box over to Nana Hendricks. She flipped the lid open, looked inside briefly and then shut it with a teary expression.

"Thank you, Mister Potter. This means a lot to an old woman."

Harry helped her with her bag and saw her to the door. "I'm very sorry for your loss."

"So am I, my boy. So am I."

**

**Chapter End Notes:**

The underlined sections represent challenge prompts that had to be incorporated into the story.


	61. Chapter 61

**Chapter Sixty-One**

They had a date.

Hermione was beside herself with nervousness. She wished she'd had time to stop by the shops and buy something new to wear, but work had kept her back until six and Draco was expecting her at the Manor at seven-thirty. Damn, she should have pushed it to eight.

She couldn't believe how nervous she felt. It was ridiculous.

After a quick shower (just being in the shower stall since their previous encounter on Saturday night had her blushing), she laid out a few outfits on her bed (the bed too made her blush) and contemplated what to wear.

This was important, and so she was going to make an effort.

There were two dresses on the shortlist. There was an elegant, metallic teal cocktail dress she had never worn.

It was serious, sexy, fitted and low at the front. There was also a more light hearted number in peach chiffon which made her feel like she was going to a school formal.

In the end she decided to forgo the dresses and opted instead for elegant comfort. She was in enough of a state already without having to worry about spilling out of her outfit over dinner. Though really, Hermione doubted she had enough in the chest for that to ever be a genuine concern.

It the end, it seemed an easy choice. The straight legged, aubergine wool and cashmere blended pants fit like a dream. Her mother had commented that they made her look taller than she was. They ought to fit well, for the price she had paid for them. She topped it off with a silver silk camisole that had freshwater pearls sewn into the lace trimmed décolletage. She had laid out a seamless, strapless bra but then, on a whim, decided to forgo the bra altogether. The feel of the silk against her bare breasts as she slipped on the camisole made her feel daring.

A little daring was ok.

Hermione then selected a soft, angora cardigan that was a shade darker than the silk. A wool-lined, long, trench coat in a smoky grey topped off the ensemble. She made it out of her bedroom before realising that the store tags were still on the coat and then hurried to the kitchen to find some scissors.

Make up was minimal, as was her wont. Hermione spritzed some perfume into the air and walked into the fine mist, sneezing once. At the door, she slipped on a pair of, matte silver, closed-toe heels over the stockinged feet and checked herself in the mirror one last time.

This final appraisal resulted in her undoing another button on her cardigan. She pulled on a soft pair of black gloves from the hallstand and grabbed a matching, thick scarf.

"Ready?" she said to her reflection, sounding a little breathless.

Honestly, it was a worry how often she talked to herself in the mirror.

The face that looked back at her was flushed with excitement.

Hermione Apparated outside the main gates of Malfoy Manor ten minutes early, but in her heels, in nearly took her that long to walk down the long carriageway. Draco's security was top-notch now. She could feel herself walking into the warded property boundary and suppressed a little shudder of relief when all hell did not break loose. The wards accepted her, as Draco had assured.

Toolip answered the door. Hermione had to stifle a laugh at how seriously the house elf was taking her duties that evening. Toolip curtsied low and swept her thin arm out with a dramatic flourish.

"We welcome you to Malfoy Manor, Miss."

"Um, thank you, Toolip."

"If Miss will kindly accompany Toolip to the drawing room? Master Draco is to be meeting you there."

"Very good," said Hermione, biting down a smile.

The drawing room in question was in the west wing. The sound of her heels on the marble floor echoed along the corridor. It felt odd being back in the house under such pleasant circumstances after the recent Death Eater attack.

Malfoy Manor had suffered no ill effects, however. The only noticeable difference was that the ballroom was cordoned off while the windows were repaired, and that the old wards had been revived. No one was going to be doing any gate-crashing again unless they were either very powerful or very stupid.

She didn't have to wait long in the warm and welcoming drawing room, which was just as well because she was fidgeting too much to be able to sit down in one place for very long. Draco was buttoning his cuffs as he strode through the doors.

"Sorry, I would have met you at the door myself, but I was speaking on the Floo with Alastor Moody."

Hermione suddenly wished she had worn a dress after all. Draco was dressed very much for fine dining. He was wearing an exquisitely tailored, moss green robes. He looked…

"You look beautiful," he said. The warmth in his eyes told her that he meant it.

"You too," she said and then wanted to smack her forehead.

They stood there staring at each other, before Hermione remembered that she hadn't kissed him in greeting.

Unfortunately, Draco seemed to remember this at the exact same time. They leaned towards each other and might have bumped foreheads if Draco hadn't tilted his head at the last second.

Toolip was standing at stiff attention beside a drinks trolley, so a passionate embrace was probably not on the cards. Accordingly, Draco's kiss was soft and light. Hermione breathed in his mild, spicy aftershave and felt a little giddy. She wondered if her perfume might be having the same effect on him. Probably not. Draco didn't do 'giddy'

"How was work?" he murmured, after they pulled apart. They were still standing very close together.

"Busy. Good," she nodded.

He held out his arm towards a velvet upholstered chaise, "Would you like to sit down and have something to drink before dinner?"

"Oh no, thank you. I'm quite alright," said Hermione.

She couldn't contemplate having anything stronger than water to drink in her current state. Her stomach was already attempting to defy gravity.

To her surprise, Draco looked a little at a loss. She could have kicked herself. Sitting down for pre-dinner drinks was the done thing, wasn't it? Drinks provided a bit of social lubrication. But then they shouldn't need social lubrication. Also, social lubrication was what had started their tumultuous relationship in the first place.

God, did it really have to be this awkward now? Why was he being so formal? A well-mannered Draco was unnerving to everyone concerned, Draco included, apparently.

"Are you hungry? You must be." He gave her an intense look and held out his arm, which she took. "We'll head directly to dinner then."

They progressed to the dining hall, which wasn't too far from the drawing room. That was a shame really, because Hermione rather enjoyed the short stroll. Having never seen the main dining hall, she gawked a little at its size and didn't realize that Draco had drawn her chair out for her.

"Thanks," she blushed and unfolded her napkin. This was all very far removed from the last time they had taken a meal together at the dingy little sushi bar on Euston Street.

At some unseen command, Toolip literally materialized at her elbow and started to serve the first course, a soup. It was a simple, warming corn and leak veloute and was ideal considering the weather.

Draco was seated too far away. 'Too far', by Hermione's definition, meant that she couldn't see the subtle changes in his eyes that gave away his thoughts more easily than the rest of him. She couldn't pick up the smell of his sexy aftershave either.

"Moody tells me that they're not having much luck in tracking Snape, although there was word of a sighting in Valencia," he informed.

Hermione fiddled with her soup spoon. "Snape cooling his heels in Spain? What a concept! How reliable is the source?"

The corner of Draco's mouth lifted. "About as reliable as the numerous claims that my father is in North America. Although one never knows."

They continued talking about Snape's disappearance until the next course arrived. It was cheese of some sort with what Hermione recognized to be arugula dressed with a lively vinaigrette and crisp bread. Genuinely curious, she asked Draco what the cheese was.

"Burrata," he replied. "Do you like it?"

"It's very nice," she answered. Undoubtedly, it was all very nice. If only she could let herself enjoy what she was eating.

She took in the surroundings as they ate, noting the portraits on the wood-panelled walls and the lovely, high, moulded ceilings. The hall was long enough that it took three massive chandeliers quite easily.

The third course was seafood, a cake of crab with chilled cucumber and crème fraiche. Toolip remained in attendance, in the event that their wine glasses needed refilling.

It occurred to Hermione that neither she nor Draco had taken more than a sip or two since the dinner had started. She looked up at him and was startled to note that he was staring down at his plate with a troubled expression.

"You know what? This isn't working for me."

Hermione felt her stomach lurch. "The crab?" she asked, even though she knew that wasn't what he meant.

Draco pushed his chair back and threw his napkin on the table. "I have a better idea." He picked up his plate and then held out his hand to her. "Come with me."

All her worries dissolved in the face of the gentle mischief in his eyes. It was enough to make her fall in love with him all over again.

Hermione picked up her own plate and then took his hand. "Where are we going?"

"The library," he announced, in a manner which suggested he hadn't known their intended location either until he had said it. He asked Toolip to redirect the following courses to the Manor's library instead.

A fire had already been built in the long, split level room. In front of the fireplace, Draco pulled off his shoes, sat down cross legged on the thick rug and patted the space beside him. Hermione slipped out of her heels and gladly sank down beside him.

They talked and ate, where possible, with their hands. And this time, there were numerous refills of their wine glasses. Before they knew it, the entire bottle had been finished. Two hours passed by incredibly quickly.

The fire had burned down to glowing embers by the time desert was served.

"I feel bad. I think I ate most of that," Draco said, putting down the spoon he had used to eat Hermione's portion of the chocolate mousse.

She didn't think he looked particularly sorry about it, so she poked him in the ribs.

Hermione then used the tip of her index finger to wipe off the last remaining dab of mousse. She sucked on her finger thoughtfully as she stared into the fire.

Draco watched her. "Tell me this was a good idea."

Hermione distractedly popped out her fingertip from her mouth and only then noticed his glittering gaze. "This was a _fantastic_ idea. I don't suppose you get to dine like this very often at home?"

Lying on his side, he propped himself up on his elbow and tipped back a healthy swig of wine. "We only used to take our meals in the dining hall. Or on the occasions that Lucius and my mother were both out, I conspired to eat in the kitchens with Toolip. She makes a most excellent Bubble and Squeak. We did have a picnic once on the grounds. Not my mother's idea, obviously, but Goyle and Blaise were over and we were practically wrecking the house. So we were banished outside."

Mention of Blaise didn't have the depressing effect she thought it might have had. Or should have had. It was just a memory. A fond one, apparently, despite everything that had happened. Memories were funny like that. It wasn't always easy to delete the attached emotions, even if you didn't want to recall feeling them. Hermione knew this all too well.

She guessed there was more to the story. "What happened?"

Draco stuck his tongue in his cheek. "It rained. Being in the middle of a sticky summer, we thought it was the best thing that could have happened. We still had out picnic, ate soggy sandwiches and drenched potato salad. Mother had a fit at the amount of mud we managed to track back into the house."

Hermione smiled, revelling in hearing these rare snippets of Draco's life. There was a whole world to experience with him and a past to familiarize herself with.

"I feel new to this," she heard him say next. And there was a more serious edge to his voice. "I don't like being…uncertain. You're going to have to give me some guidance."

With studied concentration, he slid a curled knuckle from her bottom lip, over her chin and down her neck. It stopped at the first button of her cardigan, skimming the top of her camisole. Her skin became gooseflesh all over.

"I don't think you need guidance," she said, huskily. "You seem to know what you're doing more often than not."

Draco's answering smile was pure sex. "I mean everything that comes before and after. What do nice girls like to do outside of bed?" His voice was a low rumble she swore she could feel vibrating in the core of her.

"Whatever gave you the idea that I'm a nice girl?" Hermione replied seriously. She placed her palm over the pronounced bulge in his pants. She was well aware that he'd been hard for the past hour.

"Granger, I have to be honest. Dinner was the last thing on my mind the moment you walked through the front door. But I know we need to be doing other…" she scratched her nails down along the fabric covered ridge, "things," he finished on a groan.

"Really?" Hermione said, "I'm sure we'll eventually settle into a comfortable rhythm." At mention of 'rhythm', she had him unzipped and free, lying across her small, warm palm.

She sighed. The wine made her brave and more than a little impatient to touch him. The firelight turned his pale skin gold. He was hot and very sleek. The familiar smell of him was intoxicating. She squeezed along his shaft and was delighted when a tiny drop of dew appeared at the tip. Hermione bent her head and flicked out the tip of her tongue to taste him. Her palette still held a trace of chocolate. The combination of flavours was not unpleasant.

Draco hissed and caught her about her shoulders. "Stop that."

She looked up, smiling. "Why?"

"Because If I come now, I may not have the energy or inclination to take you on the walk I have planned. That is, if you're agreeable?"

She was.

**

It was a trip to sum up the past. It was cleansing, really. The dinner date had started the process, now the walk they took through the Malfoy grounds marked the start of whatever lay ahead.

Draco insisted on bundling her up in an additional layer on top of her trench coat. The cloak he put on her was from his Hogwarts days. It was huge and smelled a little like the Great Hall, if indeed the Great Hall ever had just the one smell. There was always woodsmoke. It was bacon and eggs on some morning, fresh, buttery scones on others. Hermione liked it best on Yule mornings, when the scent of Christmas fruitcake seemed to cling to the walls.

"Warm enough?" he asked, once they were outdoors.

She nodded. They were both wearing gloves, but she thought she could still feel the heat from his hand.

They walked through a wooded area at the back of the estate. It was the same path where they had stumbled across Carmen Meliflua and Tandish Dodders on the night the Death Eaters attacked the Manor.

But this time they continued on a narrow, paved pathway, winding deeper into the woods. Hermione noted that they were walking on a gentle incline, judging from the feel of the ground under her feet and the tension in her calves.

Soon, they came to the top of a small hill that overlooked the Manor from the back of the property. From this vantage point, the house and the village of Thimble Creek were nestled in a valley below. The innumerable windows of Malfoy Manor were aglow, from east wing to west wing. It was an impressive sight.

"I had this put in last week," he said, indicating a gothic-looking, covered, lookout point at the top of the hill. It still smelled freshly of varnish. "This whole area is covered in wildflowers in the summer. My mother liked this spot and I thought I should do something, you know?"

She knew. He meant he should do something meaningful now that his mission had been accomplished.

Hermione stared down at Malfoy Manor and wondered what Narcissa thought about when she had taken in the same view.

They stood inside the small structure. Draco wrapped his arms around her from behind and rested his chin on her head.

"What will you do now?" she asked him.

He was still staring at the house. "Make love to you in every room." She felt him grin.

"Except your father's study," she said, primly.

He considered this. "Yes, every room except that."

"Seriously, though. What will you do? I can't see you being content to play lord of the Manor indefinitely."

"Ah, but being lord of the Manor requires more than strutting around in tight riding pants, brooding over absinthe in the evenings and tormenting the household staff with my debauched demands."

She giggled at the hedonistic picture he painted. "Explain 'debauched demands'."

It took him a moment to locate a suitable example. "You remember old Aramis in the painting I questioned during the attack last week?" Hermione snorted, remembering the old man that had ogled her. "How could I not?" "Well old Aramis was said to have installed a weekly wenching night…"

The giggles promptly turned into laughter.

"It was every Thursday. He'd send someone down to the village. And if a suitable girl could not be found there, he'd have a companion sent from London."

Hermione got a hold of herself "Please, tell me there's an autobiography somewhere I could read. The Malfoys suddenly sound even more interesting."

"The name Malfoy was not always associated with the Dark. We had quite a colourful, almost flamboyant history. Until my father, of course. Lucius brought back black, in more ways than one."

"Where do you think he is? Your father, I mean." Hermione asked.

"If I had to put money on it, I'd say he's on his way to meet up with Snape, if they haven't already done so." Draco's tone was amusement on ice.

"Do you think you'll ever see either of them again?"

He nodded. "Sure of it. In the meantime, I have all this to land to work with. Pansy did a fantastic job in my absence. Maybe it's time a Malfoy heir paid more attention to husbanding what he's inherited. I'd have to get to know my home all over again. And maybe while I'm busy doing that, you could get to know me..."

He sounded almost scared. She spun around in his arms to face him. "I do know you. I know enough about all the more important bits to know I love you."

She felt him shiver a little at that declaration. Draco pushed back the hood of her cloak so he could look at her face. "I will never tire of hearing you say that."

"Then I'll remember to tell you daily."

**

_Elsewhere, in the not so distant future…_

The tall man with the straw fedora was an easy target. Or so the young pickpocket thought. He looked like one of those over-confident, tourists who had strayed from the herd armed only with his brand spanking new, Lonely Planet guide. The khaki slacks he wore had pockets everywhere, but the one that most concerned the pickpocket was located on the right, front-side. It was deep and was gaping enticingly.

His wallet would be in there. Or perhaps a hotel key.

The thief followed the man through the marketplace. It was Sunday and the bazaar was in full swing. What had once been an empty square, Jemaa el Fnaa was transformed into a myriad of rows and alleys, created by the existence of hundreds of colourful stalls. You could buy anything and everything in Marrakech. You only had to know where to look.

The man walked exceedingly quickly despite the thick crowd. And perhaps that alone ought to have been enough to put the thief off his goal. As adept as he was in skimming his way through the people, the pickpocket still found himself out of breath by the time he was two or three strides behind his intended target.

He kept his eyes on the prize, on that slack pocket, weighted down by something he hoped would pay for a week's worth of fun.

There was a commotion nearby. Two hawkers were arguing and exchanging a barrage of extremely colourful abuse. A crowd had stopped to watch this minor amusement. It didn't matter how good the man was at weaving through the crowd, there was simply no way around the bottleneck until people dispersed.

Now was his chance. The thief approached from behind, curving his arm forward and around, his practiced fingers slipping deftly into the pocket without touching anything in particular. Not yet. There was no wallet. His thumb and index finger closed around a slender piece of…wood?

The thief was momentarily confused.

A strong hand suddenly covered his. The grip was crushing. Eyes the colour of hammered steel looked down at him from under the brim of the straw fedora.

"I think not," the man said.

The boy's English was limited, but he understood enough to know he was extremely lucky when that iron grip slackened and he was released.

He scrambled away into the crowd as quickly as he could.

A highly annoyed Lucius Malfoy made his way out of the market place and to the outdoor café where he knew Snape was waiting.

Hogwart's former Potion Master was nearly done with his mint tea by the time a disgruntled Lucius pulled up a chair.

"I gather you had no luck finding a newspaper?" Snape inquired with a raised eyebrow.

He was, as always, dressed in black. Lucius could not fathom how he managed it, seeing as the dark colour attracted the heat like flies to a heap of dung.

Still, such attire had its uses. When they had passed through South America, Snape had sometimes been mistaken for a priest and had cleverly said nothing to put good Samaritans off the notion of feeding a dusty, travelling padre.

"Maybe there really aren't any bloody wizards here," Lucius postulated. Lucius thought swearing was crass and common, but Snape guessed that an extended period of living in what definitely qualified as hard times had humbled him somewhat.

Lucius took off his hat and threw it on the table. "No bloody news about anything happening outside the bloody city. I don't know why I let you talk me into coming here."

Snape was an ocean of calmness, in comparison. And just the tiniest bit smug. "Oh, there are wizards here. They're just not so open about it. There are worse things to fear than Voldemort." He reached down into his lap and retrieved a tattered copy of the Daily Prophet. It was hardly a current edition. In fact, it was nearly a year old. But it was the exact edition they had been looking for.

Lucius snatched it. "Where did you find this?"

"It pays to ask people nicely sometimes, Lord Malfoy."

This earned Snape a narrow-eyed look from his travelling companion. "That's my son's title, if you please."

"I do beg your pardon," said Snape, with great dignity. "Are you going to read it or not?"

Scowling, Lucius peeled open the yellow, bedraggled paper, flipped carefully to the society pages at the back.

He must have found the article he was looking for, because his eye widened and then narrowed and occasionally, there was a derisive snort.

"Fifty guests! Can you believe that? That's hardly a rabble, let alone a _proper_ wedding."

"Small and intimate," Snape opinioned.

"I had three hundred at mine," Lucius muttered.

"Yes, and look how well that turned out for you."

"Dumbledore married them!"

Snape shrugged. "He does have a license."

"They held it at Hogwarts." And this time there was neither approval nor disapproval in Lucius' voice, so Snape said nothing.

Lucius continued reading, making a cutting comment here and there. When he was done, he carefully folded up the paper and sat back in his chair.

"Has your curiosity been satisfied now?" Snape inquired.

A noncommittal grunt was Lucius' response, but Snape noted that he looked content. Happy, even.

"Good." Snape paid for his tea.

The two men left the roadside café and proceeded to the train station to catch the non train to Fez.

It never did for fugitives to stay in the one place for very long.

_**~The End~**_

Chapter End Notes:

**Thank you, thank you, thank you!**

To everyone who followed the story, whether it's been since my recent activity here at Granger Enchanted or since DB was archived at Coloured Grey five years ago now, _thank you_.

Writing this story has not always been a bed of roses. There was a while where DB was doomed to become abandoned, but thankfully, with some assistance, I was able to keep going.

I'm upset I've lost all the feedback accumulated in that time. Hopefully, CG will be up and running in the near future and all will be well. It's nice to look back at a record of comments, especially when they were made as I was writing.

I have to apologise for the typos – I know there are still a lot in the text and it can make for annoying reading. The entire story is in the process of being beta'd for spelling and grammar, so in a little while, I'll go through each chapter and make the required corrections. My aim was to get the story posted somewhere quickly, in response to emails asking me where the bloody hell the story had gone.

There is a small group of people who have made this story possible, whether through influencing me with their own amazing works, or through their support and friendship in the community. I hope they know who they are.

I really do appreciate all the reviews and emailed feedback. It helps me improve!

_**Coming soon**_ - I'm up to the 4th chapter on a Lucius/Hermione at the moment. Soon to be posted here. Am finding LM/HG seriously tough to write. I hope some of you will go on to read that one too.

**Some background regarding this fic:**

Dragon's Bride was written in response to a series of challenge prompts issued by a shipper by the name of 'Piia', on the 'dracohermionecommunity' yahoo group sometime in 2004. I was brand, spanking new to the pairing and making new friends. I thought participating in a challenge would be, well, _challenging_.

I recall thinking - Tattooed? Drunk? Married? I MUST WRITE THIS!

What was supposed to be my attempt at a classic, D/Hr cliché eventually became this multi-chaptered _beast. _

**All the challenge lines were underlined in the story. Did you spot them?**

**From Chapter Four: The Gryffindors at breakfast in the Great Hall after the Graduation Party.**

Harry started laughing, while Ron seemed torn between sympathy and anger. "Neville! You're a dead man! That's my sister!" 

Ginny rolled her eyes. "What shocking hypocrisy, Ron. I have six brothers, it's not like I haven't seen a-"

Ron slapped a hand over his sister's mouth. "You're supposed to be sweet and pure. Mum would have my head otherwise. Accordingly you have most certainly not seen one of those," he said, very clearly, as if proper enunciation would make it true. "Neither will you see, er, one until you're at least thirty."

**From Chapter Twenty-Nine: Draco and Hermione at the Cobblestone Inn.**

"What do you mean only one room and only one bed?"

**From Chapter Fifty-Two: Hermione and Ginny visit Azkaban**

"The Malfoy heir's return, is all I was told. Routine questioning to wrap up the case." The young guard leaned closer to Hermione. "Word is that Snape freaked out when he heard Malfoy was back. Maybe he thought it was the other Malfoy, you know, the father."

**From Chapter Sixty: Hermione and Crookshanks**

"You are so sleeping on the couch tonight mister," she scolded, but then completely ruined the threat by cuddling him.


End file.
